I went to the Spanish Club in Fitzroy with my ex and our mutual friends. I was in single mode with an obscenely short skirt on (and granny knickers underneath), and proceeded to get terribly drunk.
My friend Sam had met a young man at university who’d just moved down from Sydney. He turned up just before the Drones started playing. He was (and still is) desperately handsome. Honey brown skin, plump pink lips, the kind of eyes and cheekbones that lure you in. Tall and firm and utterly masculine. I was wearing a necklace with an eagle pendant, and he wore a vintage bowling shirt with ‘White Eagle’ written on the back. I put on my best seductive face and used that as a conversation point. I lured him away from the bar at the end of the band and took him to what I promised was a ‘great place’- a dingy pool club upstairs from a cafe. It’s a wonder he stuck around, but he did. He says he was charmed by my sparkling conversation- and my grey old knickers, that he saw virtually every time I moved thanks to my too-short skirt!
We walked back to my place, had our first kiss on the way, talked all night, woke up in each other’s arms, and had one of those gorgeous sparkly Sundays that I still get tingles thinking about. The ‘this is something special, you know’ conversation in a sun drenched park. He spun me around in his arms (sickeningly, gorgeously true!). We’re still constantly delighted by each other four years on- he is the warmest, kindest, cleverest man I know and I absolutely adore him. He just turned thirty and is a primary school teacher- bloody cute. We’ll get married eventually- neither one being too fussed about a wedding. I’m a happy lady.