One typical Friday night, my best friend and I went to our favourite bar for a catch up to shoot the breeze about nothing, whatever, and everything in between.
Not long after arriving, a tipsy French guy starts talking to my BFF so I take this opportunity to leave my drink with her and duck off to the toilet.
Upon my swift return, I found three people occupying the little area: BFF, Frenchie and a tall, dark unknown male. Tall, Dark and Unknown turned out to be S., a colleague of the now drunk Frenchie.
Chit chatting with S., I found that he was reasonably fresh off a KLM flight to Amsterdam, having been here for only six months. I would later find out he was an environmental specialist with a penchant for acoustic guitar, the great outdoors and rugby union.
Incidentally, the boy was gorgeous. He had the tall height of a dutchie, the physique of a surfer and the smile of George Clooney. He looked far older than the young 26 years he claimed to be. With a deeper voice and little creases near his eyes that became apparent when he flashed a winning smile at me, S. looked to be in his early thirties.
The three of us hung out the whole night. By the end, both of us being suitably drunk, S. successfully insisted on cycling with me home.
Before we parted ways BFF quietly turned to me declaring, “He’s hot. Go forth.”
Like every red-blooded, twenty-something euro gal used to things like snow, sophistication and aloof-yet-cordial flirtations, my BFF was won over by S.’s rugged and sun-kissed physique and his tales of living in the outback delivered in a strong Aussie twang. Every girl within a five metre radius of where we were was no doubt suffering from self-induced whiplash trying to get a second glance at him. He was causing quite the estrogen commotion.
I shrugged.
S. was probably one of the best looking guys I had ever come across in my life, let alone that had ever looked twice at me, but there were a couple of things I wasn't sure about. Like his age (younger). And that even though we were from the same country, we had absolutely nothing in common (Soft rock annoys me, nature gives me a rash and rugby is for meatheads) .
More importantly, wasn’t I on the other side of the world to meet the quintessentially poised European types of guys that held galleries, fine cuisine and tailored suits close to their hearts? Guys like S. are looking for cricket bats, meat pies and Akubra hats!
“He’s alright, I guess,” I thought, wondering if my judgments of him were too harsh.
At this point in the evening, I was tired and ready to get into bed, albeit, alone. We cycled back to my house and upon me making motions to lock up my bike and head inside, S. pulled his phone from his jacket pocket.
“So, can I have your number? I was thinking about grabbing some pizza tomorrow and maybe watching a movie. You should join me. I would like that.”
I silenced the rapid fire analysis in my head, and taking his phone, punched my number in. With a smile and nod of his head, he took the phone from me and put it back in his jacket pocket. He gave me a peck on the cheek and cycled off into the distance.
Once inside my apartment, my phone announced a new message. “I’m glad we met tonight. Sleep well, speak tomorrow. S.”
I smile. Never say never. I have been known to be wrong about first impressions.
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