Night Train

“It’s lovely here,” I say. I’m with the Twitcher in an amazing place. Maybe trains used to sleep here at night: we’re in Kings Cross. The restaurant has a high vaulted ceiling and a life size photo of a train on the back wall.
“I’m glad you like it,” he says, smiling at me. He seems very pleased to see me.
Sipping my French 75 – my favourite cocktail: champagne, gin and lemon juice, I smile back at him. It is so good to see him.
He starts telling me about a trip he took to India.
“We rode on the back of elephants, searching for tigers in the reserve,” he says.
“Did you find any?” I say.
“No, but it was still fun. When I went trekking in Nepal I saw a mother and baby Nepalese rhino and…”
“I love those ones, the armoured ones,” I say.
A black slate cheeseboard arrives. There’s Stilton, Brie and Cheddar and oatcakes on it.
The conversation flows. So does the drink.
“You’ve got amazing legs,” he says, hours later. “And such a tiny waist.”
Obviously there is a problem with his spatial perception, but that’s OK.
“Thank you,” I say. “What about my mind?”
“Of course I’m interested in your mind,” he says. “I can’t wait to see you again.”

Fingers crossed that he means it. Had such a lovely time…

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