Metropolitan Lines Issue 2 - Brunel University

kissed my hand. Barry was Tony
and my skin was already crawling.
The food was good, really good.
The salad was crunchy and the
bread rolls were fresh. I ordered half
a chicken and ate it all. My date was
a funny little man. Part of me
wanted him to whip out a small
Casio keyboard and serenade me
with a medley of classic Barry hits.
Unfortunately nothing so exciting
happened. Instead, I ate while he
talked about accounting and told
me his clients’ life stories. As we
parted company he declared that I
was wonderful. I doubted his
sincerity, but agreed that I had also
had an enjoyable evening. At this
point he tried to kiss me; luckily my
expensive perfume caught the back
of his throat and sent him into a
coughing fit as I bade him
goodnight and ran into the
darkness.
Tonight I am preparing for my
fourth and last date of the month.
After the previous three fine
specimens I don’t hold out much
hope of a romantic liaison. I have
gone against my own better
judgement and let my mother
organise another encounter of the
male variety. I could kill my brother
for buying her a laptop and showing
her how to use the internet. Lately
she has been coming out with some
rather strange things, and I fear that
she is perusing web pages that are
highly unsuitable for a woman of her
growing years. Talk of bondage,
whips and crotchless knickers is not
what you want to hear from your
mother’s lips, even if it is just to ask
why people enjoy such things.
Internet dating is the latest fad to
take her fancy, and so far I have
fulfilled her wishes by going on
three quite frankly rubbish dates.
Tim, Ollie and Tony were hardly
the best possible candidates for
dinner dates. I wonder where she
found them, if she was using a
website called www.weirdmen.com
or something. Tonight she has
assured me that I will ‘hit it off’ with
her latest offering. All I know is that
he is young, called Gary and that he
works in a school. My friend Emma
has decided that after the last three
catastrophes she is coming with me
as she fears for my safety and sanity.
I am thankful for the offer, as my
mother has refused to disclose the
date venue. It’s troubling how
excited she is getting about this date
and the secrecy surrounding it.
In the mirror my face looks puffy
and tired, the thick cream I am
rubbing into my skin is described as
having ‘anti-aging oxidants’ and
‘amino acids’. Perhaps I am allergic
to them or my skin is just beyond
repair. I have been using this gunk
for two months and to me nothing
has changed. I try to get a closer
look at the open pores, which are
like gaping cavities on my nose, and
manage to head butt the mirror.
Now I have a large red bump to
contend with.
“What’s going on in there? Are
you doing yourself an injury again?”
Emma is laughing as she asks me
the question through the closed
door, “What are you wearing? What
shall I wear? Where are we going
again?”
I open the door and answer her
string of questions. On her advice I
decide to ring my mum and find out
exactly what is going on. I pick up
the receiver of our battered old
phone and begin to dial the number.
As usual there is no response.
“She isn’t answering. Just wear
anything. You know it’s going to be
rubbish anyway.”
I laugh as I say the last part and
enter my room to begin the arduous
task of getting ready. It is hard to
44
undergraduate fiction
know what to wear when you are
meeting a stranger, don’t know
where you are going, and would
rather be staying at home watching
TV. I drag out a red dress from my
crammed wardrobe and root
around on the floor trying to find the
matching killer red stilettos. I try on
the whole outfit and surprisingly it
looks quite sexy. The dress hugs my
size 12 curves in the right places and
the high heels make my short legs
seem longer. A slick of red lipstick
and a shot of hairspray on my new,
short, dark bob and I’m done. I
emerge from my room to find
Emma in the lounge chatting to my
mother.
My mother offers, “Going for the
lady-in-red look?” and begins to hum
the classic De Berg tune.
“Thanks for that, I thought I
looked quite good, actually.
Anyway, what are you doing here,
all dressed up like a dog’s dinner?”
I stand with hand on hip, waiting
impatiently for her reply.
“You look lovely, dear, like a
plump tomato. I thought I would
come along and see what it is you’re
doing to scare all these dates away.”
I want to tell her that all the men
she has so far picked have been
oddballs and that I didn’t scare
them away: I simply didn’t like
them. I refrain from retorting as I
catch a glimpse of her bare leg and
the stark realisation of what she is
wearing hits me. She has been
rooting through my old wardrobe
again, and managed to put together
an outfit that I probably once wore
when I was 15. A short, frayed
denim mini-skirt with a black and
white, frilly, polka-dot shirt, open to
reveal a cleavage that I didn’t know
she had. To top off the hideous 80s
look she somehow managed to find
some white plastic boots.
Metropolitan Lines Summer 2008
A Lesson Learned
Laura Brown