He flattens a hand across his heart as if stabbed, and says, with Sidney Poitier gravitas, ‘Wow. That hurts, brother.’
I clear my throat to disguise my laugh and shake my head, pulling out my own imitation of intense disappointment. ‘Yeah. No need for that kind of language . . . dude.’
Raphael looks mortified. He is blinking a hell of a lot. He turns to me and opens his mouth before realising – probably by the exaggerated devastated look on my face – that there is nothing to be salvaged here nor is there any way to save face. He storms back into the bar, leaving a plume of Ralph Lauren cologne behind him.
A few more moments of confused quiet passes before laughter breaks free from both Hot T-Shirt Guy and me, bubbling over as we double over, our chuckles and wheezes and huffs layering over each other in giddy camaraderie.
‘Oh my God,’ I squeal. ‘Did that just happen? That was kind of incredible, right? I have never seen a black man say nigga like it was a slur.’
Hot T-Shirt Guy’s shoulders judder as he nods, his chuckles rolling and infectious. ‘That was one of the best things I’ve ever seen. I am so serious. Also why did he act like he was saying a slur? Why did he say it like that? Nah, that was awesome. He has stage presence. Fuck a cappella, he should have been in a drama troupe.’
‘Oh, actually he was. Well, an improv troupe. You missed that part because you were on a bathroom break and not able to shamelessly eavesdrop. It was all male and called Fried Whiskey.’
He stares at me evenly. ‘Are you fucking with me?’
‘How could I possibly make something so dark up?’
He twitches his shoulder in a shrug. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know you.’
I raise my brows. ‘Oh, okay, but you’re comfortable enough to interrupt what would have been a sublime drag? By the way, you didn’t have to do that. I had him.’
Hot T-Shirt Guy turns to me fully, resting against the balcony railing, his beer hanging over the bustling street below. It’s a mid-summer evening and the air is cushy and thick as it tucks us into the night with a lullaby of car honks, bus wheezes and weekend chatter. The breeze is scented with fried chicken, cigarette smoke and a pungency that is derived from the sublime blend of sweet weed and sour alcohol. For the first time in the entire night I feel utterly relaxed.
‘Oh, I have no doubt,’ Hot T-Shirt Guy says, with a dangerously sloping smile. ‘I mean “the dulcet sound of your own baritone”？’ He releases a low whistle, ‘Jheeze. Artful.’
I’m a sucker for a man who can quote literary genius. I bow. ‘Thank you so much.’
He laughs. ‘Nah, for real, I’m sorry for butting in. It was rude. It was just like an immediate automatic reaction to the sound of his voice. I mean his tone . . . like my whole body reacted to it, you know?’
I move closer and lean against the railing. ‘Don’t worry about it. I get it. He’s annoying. He sounds like if a robot was made by Fulham bros who work at a tech start-up for the purpose of infiltrating the black community.’
Hot T-Shirt Guy snorts. ‘And failing. I might report him for a hate crime.’
I choke on my sip of wine and he smiles again. Damn. He really is fine as fuck. His hair is in short twists and a fade, looking simultaneously soft and crisp, and his eyes are brimming with a brilliance that activates a long dormant warmth in my stomach, arising from embers that I had thought were long desiccated. When he smiles, I start to feel them glow.
‘My man has no idea what he’s talking about, anyway. Trash opinions. Rosé is great,’ he says, gesturing to my glass. ‘I just can’t handle it. It makes me slutty.’
I shoot him a wry look. ‘Huh, well I would hate to see that, considering the make-out session that I witnessed earlier. Pretty sure you violated a public health code. Where is your future Beyoncé, by the way?’
Hot T-Shirt Guy shakes his head and suppresses a smile. ‘That’s rude, man. I think of her more as a future Ariana Grande.’ He pauses, and scratches his cheek. ‘Uh, she actually left. She asked me what I thought about her performance.’
I nod soberly. ‘Oh, right. And you, of course, said the truth. That it was beautiful, soul-stirring—’
Hot T-Shirt Guy bites on his lip in a clear, increased effort to repress his grin. ‘I said that it was unique and powerful.’
‘Powerful like it could wake the dead?’
His grin spills out. ‘Wow. You’re mean.’
My smile widens. ‘Well, you just chased what could have been the love of my life away.’