First Date
Jim was early. Not fashionably early, not sensibly early, but the kind of early that suggests either keen anticipation or mild neurosis. He had arrived at Waterloo Station a full forty minutes before the agreed time and was already regretting it. He always preferred to be an hour early rather than a minute late.
He stood near the entrance to Hotel Chocolate, trying to look purposeful, as though browsing headlines rather than silently panicking. His reflection in the glass was not reassuring: hair too neatly combed, shirt that felt either overdressed or underwhelming depending on how confident he was feeling. Every few minutes he glanced up at the great clock — its solemn hands moving with a patience he envied — and rehearsed conversational lines under his breath.
He had been talking to Ella online for nearly six weeks. They’d met, as so many do, through an app that specialised in promising “meaningful connections,” a phrase that had initially made him suspicious. But she had made him laugh, properly laugh, with a single message about her hatred of coriander and the dangers of online small talk. There had been something in her tone, light but sharp, honest without trying too hard that made him want to meet her.
And now he was here, pacing by Hotel Chocolate, rehearsing jokes and ad libs about escalators, band names, and curry.
“‘So, Ella, I hear you hate curry,’” he murmured. “Finally, someone brave enough to say it.” He tried a follow-up quip. “‘And we bonded over an obscure band and mutual gastrointestinal caution.’” No, that wouldn’t do. Too medical.
He checked his phone for the fifth time in as many minutes. No new messages. She wasn’t late he was simply ridiculously early.
At 18:58, a woman in a red scarf appeared at the far end of the concourse. She was moving quickly, scanning faces, her expression halfway between curiosity and hope. Even from a distance, Jim recognised her from her photos, same dark hair, same quickness about the eyes.
He froze, then panicked about freezing, then took two steps forward that felt entirely wrong, then tried to smile.
“Jim?” she said when she reached him, breathless but smiling.
“Ella,” he managed.
There was an awkward pause while both tried to decide whether to hug, shake hands, or simply nod. They settled on a sort of polite lean towards one another, two people orbiting the idea of contact.
“Sorry if I’m late,” she said. “The Jubilee Line decided it was tired.”
“No, not at all,” he said. “You’re early. I mean, not early. Just… right.”
“Good,” she said, with a smile that was polite but searching. “Shall we?”
They began walking towards the exit, both secretly relieved that the other had spoken first.
Outside, the air was cool and sharp, the evening settling into that uncertain light between day and night. They decided, without much discussion, to walk down towards the river. It felt safer than sitting immediately across a table.
“So,” Jim said after a moment. “You really hate curry?”
“Loathe it,” Ella said. “It’s like being punished by flavour.”
He laughed. “I knew I liked you for a reason. People act like it’s a moral failing.”
“Exactly! I’ve had people try to convert me, like missionaries with tikka masala.”
“That’s the worst one,” Jim said gravely. “It stains everything.”
That got a proper laugh, quick, bright, unforced. It relaxed him a little.
They talked easily then, about food, music, and the general hazards of online dating.
“I once went on a date with a man who brought a spreadsheet of his past relationships,” Ella said.
“You’re joking.”
“Colour-coded for outcome. I lasted thirty minutes.”
Jim shook his head. “That’s terrifying. My worst was someone who asked if I’d ever seen a ghost before she’d even sat down.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Only metaphorically.’ She didn’t find it funny.”
“I would have.”
And that was the moment something shifted, small, but noticeable. The kind of shift that suggests the possibility of being understood.
They reached the South Bank and found a bar with fairy lights strung lazily over a terrace. The heaters glowed faintly, like promises they might not keep.
They ordered drinks, wine for her, beer for him and found a small table just inside the doorway.
“So,” he said, “this is officially our first date.”
“Feels like we’re undercover,” she said, glancing around. “Two people pretending to be normal.”
He smiled. “You seem normal enough.”
“Don’t let appearances fool you. I’ve been known to alphabetise my spice rack.”
“I don’t even own a spice rack.”
“Then we balance each other out.”
Conversation ambled along, light, unhurried. She told him about her job in publishing (“Mostly herding authors, occasionally herding cats”), and he told her about working in IT (“Which sounds dull until you realise how many people forget their own names when resetting passwords”).
The more they talked, the easier it became. He noticed the small ways she listened, not just politely, but intently. She noticed that he made jokes not to show off but to make space for her laughter.
When the drinks were done, they walked further down the river and found a small Italian restaurant that smelled of garlic and possibility.
They sat by the window. The waiter, a man of dramatic sighs, recommended the special with the air of someone who had been recommending it since the late 1990s.
“Anything without curry,” Ella said.
“Of course,” the waiter replied solemnly, as though she had shared a personal tragedy.
They laughed, shared bruschetta, and ordered pasta.
By dessert, a shared tiramisu, each pretending not to notice the other’s enthusiasm the first-date stiffness had all but dissolved.
After dinner, they stepped back out into the cool night. The city hummed around them, buskers, laughter, the steady rush of the river.
They walked aimlessly, letting the noise of London fill the spaces between conversation.
Jim told her about the band that had first connected them - The Winking Lemons, whose obscurity was such that neither had ever met another fan.
“I saw them live once,” he said. “In a pub in Guildford. The drummer fell off the stage halfway through.”
“Authenticity,” Ella said. “That’s what you want in a band.”
“Exactly. You can’t fake gravity.”
She laughed again, and he felt the kind of relief that comes from realising you’re not entirely ridiculous.
They stopped near the river, watching the reflections of lights shiver on the surface. Somewhere, a busker was singing a Beatles song too slowly.
The moment hung there, quiet and open.
“You’re not like I imagined,” she said softly.
“Better or worse?”
“Different,” she said. “Better, I think.”
He smiled. “That’s good to hear.”
When she turned to face him, he hesitated only a moment before leaning in. The kiss was gentle, almost tentative, but certain in its intent. It lasted long enough to make them both aware of how strange and ordinary such moments are two people, strangers an hour ago, suddenly finding themselves part of a story.
When they finally pulled away, she laughed quietly. “We’ve missed our trains, haven’t we?”
He checked his phone. “Almost certainly.”
“Well,” she said, “at least we’ll have a good story. The curse of the last train.”
“Could be worse,” he said. “We could be stranded somewhere without kebabs.”
Which is how, fifteen minutes later, they found themselves at a food van by the river, not hungry but still clutching overpriced doner kebabs and watching the city drift past.
“This is surprisingly romantic,” Ella said, dabbing sauce from her hand.
“I was just thinking that,” he said. “Nothing says ‘connection’ like shared napkins.”
They sat on a bench overlooking the water, the London Eye glowing behind them, both feeling that peculiar blend of fatigue and exhilaration that only comes from being unexpectedly happy.
They talked about small things, holidays gone wrong, terrible neighbours, and irrational fears. She confessed a dislike of Kiwi fruit (“too unpredictable”), and he admitted to once owning six identical pairs of jeans because he hated shopping.
The air had cooled by now, but neither seemed to mind. London, for all its noise and restlessness, felt oddly still around them.
“I like this,” she said quietly. “No noise, no pressure. Just… this.”
He nodded. “Me too.”
For a while they didn’t speak, watching boats slide beneath the bridges, the lights smudging like watercolour.
Eventually, he checked the time again and frowned. “It’s only just after ten,” he said. “We could still make our trains.”
She looked surprised, then smiled. “Miraculous. The city forgives us.”
They rose reluctantly and began to walk back towards the station. Their steps matched easily now, the awkwardness of earlier long forgotten.
Inside Waterloo, the late evening crowds had thinned. The clock hung above them, steady and luminous a witness to a thousand meetings, partings, and everything in between.
“Well,” he said, turning to her. “I had a really good time.”
“Me too,” she said. “Thank you for… not being a spreadsheet.”
He laughed. “High praise indeed.”
There was a pause. Not awkward, just full, as though both were measuring how much to say, how much to leave unsaid.
“Same time next week?” he asked finally.
She smiled. “Same place?”
“Under the clock,” he said.
She nodded. “Under the clock.”
They lingered for a moment longer, reluctant to part. Then, with a final smile, she turned and walked towards her platform.
He watched her go, feeling that curious mixture of hope and disbelief that comes when something good happens in a world that so often insists on the opposite.
As she disappeared into the crowd, he looked up once more at the clock. It read 22:07. Still early, he thought. Wonderfully, impossibly early.
On her train home, Ella checked her reflection in the window. Her cheeks were flushed, her scarf smelled faintly of garlic and river air, and she was smiling without meaning to.
She scrolled to his message thread still open from earlier that day and typed:
Get home safe. Thanks for tonight. Under the clock, same time next week?
She hesitated, then added a small heart. Not a full one, just the kind that says maybe.
Then she hit send and, leaning her head against the glass, began to wonder in that quiet, way people do — what she might wear next time.
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