A Perfect Date

A Perfect Date 

Raul lays out his short-sleeved salmon shirt on the ironing board. He pulls it to the edge so that he can get the shoulder properly pressed. As he does this, he wonders about the choice of location for his date. He has chosen an old, traditional bar that serves fried fish and beer. It is always bustling and he thought it would be a good bar to ask those awkward getting-to-know-you type questions whilst also noisy enough for any awkward silences to be filled. He goes through his list of preparations in his head. He has already showered, shaved carefully, cut and filed his nails and combed his hair using the sticky mattifying balm which controls the unruly sections. He has his trousers nicely ironed and ready to wear. He wonders if he will appear overdressed for a first date. His reasoning, which he goes over again, is that it would be better to be overdressed than underdressed; it’s nice to make an effort. It’s his first date in a while and it’s the first one in many years where he thinks he might genuinely like the woman. 

His shirt is now completely smooth and wrinkle free, unlike himself he thinks as he eyes the mirror and sighs. It is a hot spring day in Madrid, so he waits for his shirt to cool before putting it on. As he does so, he ponders questions he can ask her and possible replies to the questions she may ask him. She is a journalist, and as such he wants to ask her about her thoughts on current affairs, there are too many wars happening right now, he will steer clear of those, as he finds that when he talks about those things he gets het up, emotional. No, better steer clear of those and stick to local politics perhaps. Although that is divisive too, the far-right party Vox with its stance on women’s rights would be tricky terrain. She comes from Scotland, perhaps he can ask her about the politics there, yes, that would be interesting. He can ask her about the separatists, draw parallels with Catalonia. He wonders if she’s a separatist herself.

As he leaves the house and heads for the metro, he asks himself if he really wants to take her to the park. It is hotter than expected and there are so many variables that could go wrong. Insects, sweating, noise, dogs. But as he looks down at his feet, wearing the new trainers he bought especially for this occasion, he reasons with himself that there are always things that can go wrong. His therapist has told him so many times to try and push himself out of his comfort zone, so this is what he’s going to do. 

As the train is approaching his stop, La Latina, he gets up ready to disembark. It is a busy part of the city. As he gets off, he becomes one with the swarms of people heading up the escalator towards the exits. He stands to the right of the escalator, it is a long way to the top and he doesn’t want to get sweaty already from the climb. A stream of people pass steadily by on the left, undeterred by the heat. As he watches them pass, in their brightly coloured clothes, he feels for once okay about the way he looks. At the top, he is unsure which exit to take and ends up emerging on the wrong side of the road. Outside, there are lots of people sat drinking their cañas and coffees, snacking on warm salty crisps and too-hard olives. He waits to cross the road and he notices a couple across the way holding hands. Although they are holding hands, they are not close to each other and they appear slightly out of step which suggest they are not very familiar with each other. The girl takes a glance at the guy occasionally, as if to check he is still there.

He checks his phone and realises he is running a little late and as he turns the corner onto the street they have arranged to meet on and draws closer to the bar, he sees a woman standing outside the bar, looking down the street. It is Beatrice. Her gaze is distant as if lost in thought. She is wearing light coloured shorts and a yellow t-shirt, very casual. He regrets his choice of clothing immediately. She is looking his way now, although without seeing him, her face changes and her eyes crease at the corners, she recognises him. 

***

As they emerge from the tiny, tiled bar and onto the street Raul feels surprised at the daylight. Inside, the bar was full of the noise of people shouting orders of ‘dos cañas’ and ‘tres bacaloas, por favor’. It is a relief to be outside. He notices Beatrice sigh languidly. Again he feels overdressed in his trousers and shoes. 

‘Do you know another place nearby?’ Beatrice asks.

‘Actually, I was thinking we could head to the park…’ he suggests 

She nods and smiles, tilting her head to the side, as though this were something unexpected. Raul feels like this is a good thing. They thread their way through the crowds of La Latina and then Barrio de Las Letras. They notice the shiny plaques on the floor which they would usually pass over but in the moment, they stop and read a few. There is one that reads,  

 ‘“La libertad se aprende ejerciendola”

Clara Campoamor’

“Freedom is learned by exercising it.” It feels apt. He is doing this today.

As they stroll and chat, Raul feels something that he hasn’t in a while. A solid feeling, it reminds him of going to his grandparents house as a child. His grandmother taking round cakes out of the oven and placing them to cool on a wire rack before handing him one. His grandfather reading to him with two pairs of glasses on his long nose. Feeling like the world was small and safe. Beatrice listens to him when he speaks, she laughs when he makes jokes, and it doesn’t seem forced. There is a back and forth between them that feels natural, he even feels like sometimes, her eyes linger on his face a little longer than a friend’s would. She seems interested in him. And he is, in turn, interested in her. She has a way of speaking that is pragmatic. She picks out the important details and she gives her own opinion on things, like she has really thought about them. He also likes her way of moving, there is a confidence and determination, not as though she has never been challenged, but like she has and she has learnt to be herself anyway.

They cross Passeo del Prado, the busy main road in front of the Prado museum, and walk alongside the museum and its gardens to the park, passing the artists selling their paintings and tourists snaking around the museum walls. Upon entering the gates of the park, they take a small path and meander a little along adjoining paths, looking for a nice patch of grass to sit on that also has enough shade from the hot sun. They find a little area where some other people are sitting although not too close. Beatrice throws down the cardigan she has in her bag and sits on that. Raul sits straight onto the grass with his trousered legs stretched straight out in front of him. Beatrice kicks off her sandals and he finds himself doing the same. It is delightful to feel the smooth grass under his feet. Being with Beatrice makes him feel like he doesn’t know what will happen next and for once, it feels good. He feels so relaxed in that moment that he lets himself fall back onto the grass, his head resting on the ground. He hears Beatrice’s laughter as he does so. As he lays there, his eyelids shut, a sweet smell drifts over to him—disgustingly sweet. Familiar in a bad way. A familiar horror courses through him. His eyes still shut, he makes two wishes. The first, that please let that not be nectarine. It could be peach, orange, but just not nectarine. Please let his senses be deceived. He had made this wish before, but never quite this intently. Secondly, please let the fruit belong to someone else, someone sat nearby and let the breeze have carried it over.

He steadies himself before he opens his eyes, bracing for the worst. Fear collects in the pit of his stomach. His shoulders tense as he hunches forward. As he opens his eyes, he sees Beatrice, who has taken a see-through plastic bag out of her tote-bag. Inside are what appear to be two nectarines. He watches, as if frozen, as she takes one of the nectarines from the bag and offers it to him, smiling, as if it were nothing. Trying to maintain his composure, he says, ‘No thanks,’ hoping he is hiding the revulsion on his face by turning it to the side. 

His mind is racing with ways to get out of this scenario. He can’t stand nectarines since that day when he was a teenager and the thing happened. He remembers seeing them, the nectarines, which had been left out too long in the sun and had gone rancid, the pulp of the fruit almost bubbling. The smell which saturated the whole apartment. He fights to not gag. Covers his nose with his hand. He looks around. The people who looked so innocent just moments before now strike him as sinister, as though complicit. Someone surely must have set him up. He can see Beatriz out of the corner of his eye. She is saying something that he can’t make out. He is panicking. He could say that he has received a text saying that one of his family members is sick. Yes, this could work, right? She’d understand and they could just rearrange. As he slides his hand in his pocket to get out his phone he looks up at her. He is too late. She has lifted the nectarine to her mouth and is already biting into it. A feeling of absurd curiosity comes over him, maybe he has changed, maybe he can breathe through this. In a moment of bravery he looks at her, just as her dark eyes momentarily close as she bites into the nectarine and a trickle of yellow juice slides down her chin. A revulsion so deep sweeps over him, a revulsion he is unable to hide on his face and which she sees as her eyes open and she looks at him––eyes agape, mouth open, brow furrowed. He looks down, searches for something to say, but all he can see is the look in her eye. Not being able to form a sentence, he stands up, turns and walks away as fast as he can. He is at the gates before he realises he has left his shoes and socks lying on the grass.