DAVE
by Ailsa Thom
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: Appearances can be deceiving.
_____________________________________________________________________
Internet dating. It was my first time, and I knew that I’d already learned a valuable lesson. Don’t trust the photo. Particularly if it’s a little blurred. And don’t trust a guy to know his own height. An alleged 5’10” Michael Fassbender lookalike turned out to be about five foot nothing with his hands in the air, as my mum would say, and looked like he’d run into a wall.
“Oh, aye, that photo was taken when I was still playing rugby, but a knee injury, you know.”
I knew nothing about rugby and didn’t intend to find out. It looked as if all his muscle had matured into fat.
His eyes were level with my chest as I stood in front of him in my high give-me-confidence heels. I suggested that we sit down.
Two pints later, and he was telling me about is ex-wife in a way that I knew that he was still carrying a torch for her. In fact, it was a bloody bonfire. Despite the fact that she had a new guy, and was obviously moving on in her life.
The rugby and the ex-wife had not featured in his biography, nor in any of his chatty getting-to-know-you emails.
I hung on until his third pint, and his first visit to the ‘little boys’ room’, and I legged it.
I knew that I would feel deeply ashamed about this later, but right at that moment, it was a bid for self-preservation and sanity.
It was just beginning to get dark, and I began walking in the rough direction of the city centre. I guessed that the road ran parallel to the river and should take me there, but this was the south side of town, somewhere I rarely ventured. I kept looking over my shoulder for a taxi or a bus, but none appeared.
Soon the road, with tenements and bars became a bit rougher, a bit seedier. My feet were killing me but I knew that if I stopped they would be agony and I would never move again. There wasn’t even a bloody bus stop.
I could see a bridge loom suddenly between buildings in the distance. It was lit up in an eerie blue, but I knew that it meant that I could cross the river to the north side where I was familiar with, where I knew the landmarks. But how to get there?
The main road seemed to veer away from the river, but the bridge wasn’t too far I told myself, and I followed the more direct route, a side street which quickly dog legged into a darker area of warehouses. The street lamps were further apart, and there were fewer cars. I kept looking over my shoulder, my heels clip clipping on the pavement. A shadow detached itself from a path which ran up the side of a darkened building. I speeded up, my heels tripping and scuffing the pavement. Trying to look confident. I didn’t look over my shoulder now.
Soft footfalls were drawing closer, speeding up. I stretched my legs further, my breath short and ragged. The bridge couldn’t be far. I shouldn’t have abandoned my date. I could see the headlines, the lurid reporting on the state of my body, its undress, its mutilation. Worse, I could almost hear the comments.
‘Stupid woman. Wandering along dark alleyways. They never learn, do they?’
‘Serves her right, for dumping her date’
‘Dressed like that? Just asking for it.’
I was angry with myself. Furious that it would end like this.
A car swooshed by, headlights in the gloom throwing another shadow parallel to mine. In the silence that followed in the car’s wake, I sensed him rather than saw him draw level with me. He managed to match his stride with mine.
“A bit late to be out for a walk? You meeting someone?”
His voice was rough and slightly slurred. I glanced at him from out of the corner of one eye. He looked rough and slightly slurred.
“Just taking a short cut to meet friends. They’re expecting me!” I tried to sound bright and breezy, yet forbidding and in control.
“Some friends, if they make you walk all this way yourself,”
“Oh, it’s not far.”
“You a student?”
“No, I work in town. In an office.”
That was more than my date had asked me.
“Oh, right? What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t say.” I felt smart; then slightly sick that my smartness might provoke him.
“Oh, right. My name’s Dave. See?”
And Dave swung his closed fist up towards my face. I stopped midstride, almost over balancing.
“Hey, watch it! You almost fell there. Don’t know why you lassies wear such high shoes. Cannae walk in them. Look, it’s my name.”
I refocused. Sure enough, it was his name. D A V E was tattooed across his knuckles. Like a calling card.
“So what’s your name?” Social etiquette apparently now meant that I give him my name.
“Sandra,” I said. It isn’t. But we shook hands, fake Sandra and Dave.
We walked on. It seemed the right thing to do. My legs were sore, and my feet were cut to shreds. I couldn’t have run if I’d tried. He chatted on, asking about myself. I gave fake answers to match my fake name. I wondered when he would make his move. If my feet weren’t so swollen I could have taken off a shoe and hit him with it.
“Here we are, just round this corner, see? The bridge. You need to cross it to meet your friends.”
I would have danced a jig if I were able. Instead I pretended it was exactly where I’d expected it to be. I hoped he wouldn’t follow me.
“Well, that’s me then. I go this way now. You take care, you hear? Lots of weirdoes out there, and you all by yourself. Don’t let your mates do that to you again. Bye Sandra.”
I was right; I felt deeply ashamed.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Appearances can be deceiving.
_____________________________________________________________________
Internet dating. It was my first time, and I knew that I’d already learned a valuable lesson. Don’t trust the photo. Particularly if it’s a little blurred. And don’t trust a guy to know his own height. An alleged 5’10” Michael Fassbender lookalike turned out to be about five foot nothing with his hands in the air, as my mum would say, and looked like he’d run into a wall.
“Oh, aye, that photo was taken when I was still playing rugby, but a knee injury, you know.”
I knew nothing about rugby and didn’t intend to find out. It looked as if all his muscle had matured into fat.
His eyes were level with my chest as I stood in front of him in my high give-me-confidence heels. I suggested that we sit down.
Two pints later, and he was telling me about is ex-wife in a way that I knew that he was still carrying a torch for her. In fact, it was a bloody bonfire. Despite the fact that she had a new guy, and was obviously moving on in her life.
The rugby and the ex-wife had not featured in his biography, nor in any of his chatty getting-to-know-you emails.
I hung on until his third pint, and his first visit to the ‘little boys’ room’, and I legged it.
I knew that I would feel deeply ashamed about this later, but right at that moment, it was a bid for self-preservation and sanity.
It was just beginning to get dark, and I began walking in the rough direction of the city centre. I guessed that the road ran parallel to the river and should take me there, but this was the south side of town, somewhere I rarely ventured. I kept looking over my shoulder for a taxi or a bus, but none appeared.
Soon the road, with tenements and bars became a bit rougher, a bit seedier. My feet were killing me but I knew that if I stopped they would be agony and I would never move again. There wasn’t even a bloody bus stop.
I could see a bridge loom suddenly between buildings in the distance. It was lit up in an eerie blue, but I knew that it meant that I could cross the river to the north side where I was familiar with, where I knew the landmarks. But how to get there?
The main road seemed to veer away from the river, but the bridge wasn’t too far I told myself, and I followed the more direct route, a side street which quickly dog legged into a darker area of warehouses. The street lamps were further apart, and there were fewer cars. I kept looking over my shoulder, my heels clip clipping on the pavement. A shadow detached itself from a path which ran up the side of a darkened building. I speeded up, my heels tripping and scuffing the pavement. Trying to look confident. I didn’t look over my shoulder now.
Soft footfalls were drawing closer, speeding up. I stretched my legs further, my breath short and ragged. The bridge couldn’t be far. I shouldn’t have abandoned my date. I could see the headlines, the lurid reporting on the state of my body, its undress, its mutilation. Worse, I could almost hear the comments.
‘Stupid woman. Wandering along dark alleyways. They never learn, do they?’
‘Serves her right, for dumping her date’
‘Dressed like that? Just asking for it.’
I was angry with myself. Furious that it would end like this.
A car swooshed by, headlights in the gloom throwing another shadow parallel to mine. In the silence that followed in the car’s wake, I sensed him rather than saw him draw level with me. He managed to match his stride with mine.
“A bit late to be out for a walk? You meeting someone?”
His voice was rough and slightly slurred. I glanced at him from out of the corner of one eye. He looked rough and slightly slurred.
“Just taking a short cut to meet friends. They’re expecting me!” I tried to sound bright and breezy, yet forbidding and in control.
“Some friends, if they make you walk all this way yourself,”
“Oh, it’s not far.”
“You a student?”
“No, I work in town. In an office.”
That was more than my date had asked me.
“Oh, right? What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t say.” I felt smart; then slightly sick that my smartness might provoke him.
“Oh, right. My name’s Dave. See?”
And Dave swung his closed fist up towards my face. I stopped midstride, almost over balancing.
“Hey, watch it! You almost fell there. Don’t know why you lassies wear such high shoes. Cannae walk in them. Look, it’s my name.”
I refocused. Sure enough, it was his name. D A V E was tattooed across his knuckles. Like a calling card.
“So what’s your name?” Social etiquette apparently now meant that I give him my name.
“Sandra,” I said. It isn’t. But we shook hands, fake Sandra and Dave.
We walked on. It seemed the right thing to do. My legs were sore, and my feet were cut to shreds. I couldn’t have run if I’d tried. He chatted on, asking about myself. I gave fake answers to match my fake name. I wondered when he would make his move. If my feet weren’t so swollen I could have taken off a shoe and hit him with it.
“Here we are, just round this corner, see? The bridge. You need to cross it to meet your friends.”
I would have danced a jig if I were able. Instead I pretended it was exactly where I’d expected it to be. I hoped he wouldn’t follow me.
“Well, that’s me then. I go this way now. You take care, you hear? Lots of weirdoes out there, and you all by yourself. Don’t let your mates do that to you again. Bye Sandra.”
I was right; I felt deeply ashamed.
About the Author
Originally Born in Edinburgh, Ailsa now lives in Rutherglen. She has written several short stories, and is trying to get a novel finished.