Lusty, glowing bodies dressed to impress are crammed together in this heaving, generic bar in Angel. A warm and happy haze hangs over the Saturday night crowd with its constant chatter and the clink of glasses.

Sammy and I manage to squeeze past the bodies that litter the stairs, wine glasses in hand. We start to talk in that animated fashion that tells of an old friendship. The familiarity, the ease. I notice that Sammy is talking and listening but that she is looking past my shoulder. She starts to move and drags me with her – her eagle eyes have espied two seats on one of the battered leather sofas.

“Do you mind if we sit here?” she asks, eyes a-twinkle.

“Not at all,” replies the pleasant looking American as his friend smiles and nods his agreement.

We get on with our chit-chat. The Americans are trying to catch our attention but we ignore them – it’s been a few months and we girls have a lot to discuss. After about half an hour they interrupt us;

“Mind if we join you?”

Sammy and I look at each other and reluctantly but graciously accept. They seem like nice guys and we don’t want to be rude.

My guy, JW the Third tells me of his unconventional upbringing. Mother left father for another woman. JW3 rebelled, got into a whole heap of trouble at school. Years later mother and partner are still together and he has made peace with them and loves them both. Now he is a successful entrepreneur. He is rich. He loves his family however unconventional, he is rich and his business requires that he divide his time between the Big Apple and the Big Smoke. Oh, did he mention that he was rich? Oh and then there's sex. He loves it (well who doesn't?), oh and he is very rich.

I’m not really much good at this. But a recently single serial monogamist like me needs the practice. I try to join in, tell him things about myself but between his ‘crazy family’ and his disposable income, I don’t get to say much. He doesn’t actually seem to want to know.

We shake them off almost two hours later.

“We’re having a late dinner with some friends who’ve been to the theatre,” we lie, our fingers crossed furtively behind our backs.

They leave. JW3 has an early flight to catch anyway.

Just when we think the coast is clear I feel a tap on my back.

“Hi,” he smiles, “I couldn’t help but notice that we had a bit of a connection back there. And I was walking back to my apartment thinking that I couldn’t just let that get away. Could I take your cell number?” I am seriously taken aback. What fucking connection? I don’t know what to do. I scan the crowd, desperately seeking Sammy for backup but it’s no use, she’s at the bar.

“Uh, sure,” I smile outwardly, inwardly berating myself.

He walks off, grin on face. I admonish myself for not having thought of giving a false number. But I would have felt bad. So bad. Never mind, I think to myself. There’s no way he’ll call.

But he calls.

The very next morning at 7am.

Flustered with early morning crankiness I am relatively curt. I fob him off with an e-mail address thinking that it will be so much easier to deal with than a telephone conversation.

Not two hours later I log on to my PC to find my inbox flashing, heart, foot, everything in my mouth, too scared to read, too scared because I never should have given him a green light like this, never should have let him think that whatever he felt was reciprocated, scared because sometimes you just know that there’s no ‘connection’.

Hi PPQ
Just a quick hello to follow up my early morning wake-up-call.
You sound different in the morning. What were you wearing when I called? :)
You keep wandering into my thoughts...either I'm bored, or you left quite an impression on me last Saturday. I'm not bored. Anyway, now you have my email address; please use it it...

Cheers,
JW3

Of course I sound different. I was asleep, you woke me up...and what was I wearing…what was I wearing?

Bugger this. I tap out a reply pretty darn quickly, polite and apologetic but firm. And there it is…my first Dear John.

*Click*

Message sent.

What a bitch.

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