The first meeting:
I meet the Scientist at the local rugby pub. He is standing with a casual acquaintance (part of the Irish Mafia that always seems to be propping up the bar). A quick glance at the Scientist tells me three things:
1. He was tall
2. He was new to Lausanne
3. He was passable. And had nice arms.
And so I chat to him. I’m sociable (and shallow) like that.
And we talk. And talk. And talk.
After the rugby, we talk some more. Around me, everyone is getting progressively drunker (the Scientist included) and I am getting progressively more bored with the whole being sober lark.
About half way through the evening, a friend pulls me aside. “How’s it going with the big boy?” he asks. I shrug, non-committally.”A nice guy, funny to be around, good company.” I reply.
“You’ve got competition” he says. Again, a shrug. If another girl wants him, she’s welcome to him. Yes, he’s nice. Yes, he’s quite hot. But jeez, I’ve just met him. I’m not going to straddle him in the middle of the bar, and I certainly have no claim on him.
Sure enough, about 10 minutes later, an American girl joins the group and starts talking to the Scientist. I take the hint. However, suddenly, the Scientist is back talking to me. About 5 minutes pass and a friend of the American comes over. She stands in front of me and drags the Scientist off to her table.
On my own once more, I turn and make conversation with my other friends. And there he is, back again.
“You’re popular this evening” I tease.
“Yeah” he says, looking confused “they wanted to complain to me about some guy that was coming onto them. What am I supposed to do about it?”
(As an aside, this is more evidence that fundamentally, men are clueless)
At about 11.30 I decide that being sober sucks. I say goodbye to all and sundry and left the pub. As I leave, American girl’s friends are also leaving. “How’s your friend?” they ask. “Our friend’s really pissed off with you” they continue. “She liked him and you kept blocking her”.
I walk home, smiling.
The second meeting:
“Oh! You’re here again”, he says as I enter the pub. Shows how much he knows – when rugby’s on, I practically live in the pub. “I’m here again” I confirm.
Sitting on opposing tables, eye contact flickers between us. Smiles. Glances. The beginnings of a flirtation – a warmness in my stomach – a rising blush – that contentment I get when I smell freshly baked bread or newly cut grass
“You’re not leaving are you?” he asks “Why don’t you stay with us?”. I don’t need to be asked twice.
We both leave the pub much later with new numbers in our phone.
The third meeting:
“Going out this weekend? Fancy grabbing a bite to eat?” I text.
“Sure, sounds good” comes the reply.
We go, we eat, we walk, we drink, we talk.
It’s 1 o’clock and I make a move to leave. 3 Swiss kisses. More lips than cheek.
The fourth meeting:
The back and forth texting has continued. I ask him round. He declines but maybe another time? Is he going to watch the rugby? Maybe, but he’s playing so he might be late but maybe we’ll see each other later? Maybe, maybe, maybe.
I’m annoyed. So I sulk. I sit on the sofa and sulk. My friends call. Where am I? Stop sulking. Come to the pub.
And so I’m in the pub again. And there he is. There is he with his arms around a small, dark haired girl. He ignores me. I go over and introduce myself to her. She is smiley and lovely. She’s over from Ireland to visit him. He ignores me.
As he leaves, he tries to shake my hand.
He texts me. Twice.
I ignore him.
(Thanks to Monsieur de la Pérouse for the photo. You can read his travel blog here – be warned, google translate is probably required)