“It’s a popular place, this,” the Twitcher says, leading me into a cave full of people drinking wine.
“I’m happy to go outside,” I say.
“Good plan,” he says, and we take our Rioja outside. Even on the terrace it’s packed.
“We’re not the only people who have thought to come here, on a Wednesday night,” I say.
“Let’s perch here,” he says, finding a barrel. We put our drinks down.
It’s dark and, it has to be said, romantic, huddled around the wine barrel tables with all the other couples. The Twitcher is really attractive: big blue eyes, dirty blond hair, great bone structure. He’s about 6 ft 1 and I like his style: grey frock coat, blue and white striped shirt.
“I wanted to meet you quickly,” he says. “I liked the text banter – thought we’d get on.”
“Ah well,” I say. “I’m a writer. Speaking is my second language.”
He laughs. I don’t tell him that I’ve borrowed that from Julie Burchill.
“You seem to be able to chat just fine,” he says.
I like this one, I think.
We talk about art, history, wildlife.
“I want to see you again,” he says.
I hope he means it!