The superstar-model has a singing voice that sounds like what candyfloss would sound like if it were a sentient character in a cartoon, with accents of drowning cat. It is so beautifully terrible. I’m having a great time, she’s even managed to drown out Raphael. Her long lashes flutter as she focuses on her date, serenading him as he sits rigid on his chair, unblinking. I bop my head along to the song, and when she breaks into her spoken-word verse, which involves the line ‘peng boy, don’t play me like a toy’， I click my hands in the air. ‘Say it, sister!’
Hot T-Shirt Guy glares at me. I grin.
‘Shout out spoken word!’ Raphael says.
‘Do you wanna get out of here?’ Raphael’s brazenness is staggering.
It’s the interval and we’re in the smoking area, where I am drinking my second glass of rosé and, judging by Raphael’s increased proximity to me, where he thinks we’re going to make out.
‘ . . . I don’t live far from here, only Clapham, and I actually have a bottle of gin from that distillery. I can expand your palate. I don’t have any of that fake wine you’ve been drinking all night. I mean, rosé? What are you, a Real Housewife? Haha. Nah, I’m joking. That ain’t your vibe. Clearly. I mean, would it kill you to wear a dress on a date?’ I am wearing fitted cargo pants, a black strappy crop top, an oversized button-down shirt that slips off my shoulder, sneakers and red lipstick, and he wishes he had such flawless drip. ‘Haha, I’m kidding. Anyway, yeah, I can call an uber and—’
I hold a finger to my temple and release a long, loaded sigh as I try to gather what is left of my fast dwindling patience. ‘Oh, man. Raphael, do you think this date is going well?’
He frowns, confused. The sheer unbridled hubris is almost endearing. ‘I think it’s vibsey, yeah.’
I know I should be more tactful, but rosé has eroded the ability to temper my words and my jaw is aching from keeping my laughter repressed, and his use of ‘vibsey’ has pushed me to the edge. So I shake my head, smile, and say, ‘Lancelot is a super shit nickname to make up for yourself if you want to pretend that you were a player in university. When he proposed to Guinevere, she rejected him and he fled to a monastery where he died of grief. You might have known that I knew that if you bothered to ask me any questions, because then you might have found out that I took a history module in Ancient Mythologies. That, however, would require you to be less enamoured by the sound of your own voice, which seems to be physically impossible for you. Also Novies? I mean . . . objectively? That is not a thing that makes sense. I’m just telling you as someone who – okay, not exactly someone who cares about you, but somebody who cares about the state of our culture, that that idea is an abomination and an insult to the concept of both novels and movies.’
Raphael blinks at me, and, in a flash, I see the shock of rejection bypass self-reflection and sidle into something snide. ‘Whatever, dude.’ Dude?
The corner of Raphael’s lip turns up in an ugly snarl that makes him look like an evil Disney prince. Finally, something zesty. Ironically, I might actually fancy him now.
‘This date was a favour anyway. It was obvious from the beginning that you were intimidated by me. Plus,’ he runs his eyes across me, ‘why would I want to date someone whose dress sense is a cross between a stripper and a thug? You seem confused, love.’
This makes me laugh hard, because though I adore the idea of a stripper and thug aesthetic, I know that someone who’s a walking complex racial allegory fit for a Jordan Peele movie isn’t calling me confused.
I gather myself up and open my mouth to say just that, when a cool, low, bemused voice says, ‘You’re joking, right?’
Raphael and I both look towards the direction of the voice to see Hot T-Shirt Guy, leaning over the balcony, beer in hand, smirk on his face.
Raphael scowls. ‘Excuse me?’
Hot T-Shirt Guy laughs and straightens up, rubbing the stubble on his chin. He shrugs. ‘Sorry, it’s just genuinely amazing to me that you have the audacity to say that she’s intimidated by you. Like . . . of what, man? A store brand Carlton Banks?’
My hand flies to my mouth and covers my elegant gasp and snort combo while Raphael splutters ‘Mind your fucking business, dude’， and when this fails to get the response he desires, he says ‘Man, fuck off, nigga!’
Our part of the balcony falls into a stunned silence that is more confounded than awkward. Hot T-Shirt Guy’s eyes are bright with delight, but he fixes his face to look grave.