Not a shred of romance

“It was good,” he says. “I got a few new clients in. Some hotels out in Naivasha. We should go down together when I go to sort out the paperwork.”

“That would be nice,” I nod. Then more silence. Then eventually, “It’s been a while since I went on a road trip.”

“Are you forgetting this past weekend when we went to Kitengela?” he asks as he winds some spaghetti round his fork.

“Oh, yes, there is that,” I reply, wondering how I could have forgotten that particularly explosive trip.

“On that note,” he continues, “I asked you a question that day. Did you think about what I asked?”

I gulp – and not necessarily because I am swallowing anything other than air. I know the answer he expects. I know the answer I should give. But for some reason, every cell in my body is rebelling against saying ‘yes’ to him no matter how much of a good idea it seems to be in my head. I stare hard at my plate, pretending to be totally absorbed in my food. And then when it becomes impossible to keep staring without looking like a total oddball, I pick up my glass of red wine and take a long, long sip.

“So what do you say then?” Harry prods.

I take a deep breath and say the first thing that comes to mind. “Well, I think that when it comes to situations such as, erm… these, it’s very teenage behaviour to ask someone to be your, um, girlfriend.”

“Are you calling me juvenile?” he frowns.

“No, no,” I wave my arms frantically. “That’s not what I meant. What I mean is, it shouldn’t have to be asked.

“So I can just assume that you are my girlfriend?” he smirks.

'BE ROMANTIC'

“No, that’s not what I meant either,” I say, frowning. This is not going how I wanted it to go – not that I know how I wanted it to go in the first place. “It’s just that I think that if you want a woman, you should woo her. You know… buy her flowers. Take her places. Be romantic.”

“You know I’m not the romantic type,” he counters.

Sadly, yes, I know. “But you can try,” I say.

“Ok. How do you suggest I try?”

“Look, I can’t teach you how to be romantic,” I snap. “You have to have it in you.”

Harry looks at me, clearly puzzled. “But I have just told you that I don’t know how to do it, and now you’re angry because I need your guidance? I don’t understand women.”

“The first thing you should know about romance is that you never dismiss a woman’s anger like that,” I continue, on a roll now. “It’s not about being ‘a woman’, it’s about you not understanding what I mean.”

“But, I… I really don’t understand what you mean,” Harry spreads his palms out, looking extremely confused. “If you say you want something and I don’t know how you want it, is it only fair for me to ask you how to do it? So that I don’t get it wrong?”

Properly confused

“It’s not romantic if I have to tell you how to do it!” my voice is raised now and I am waving my hands in the air in frustration. Harry sits back in his chair and raises his eyebrow.

“Now I am properly confused,” he says, eventually. “What do you want? Tell me and I will do it for you.”

“I want you to be more romantic!” I snap. Then I glare at him, daring him to say anything else.

Harry keeps silent. Then he opens his mouth to say something, thinks better of it, then shuts up. “I’m sorry,” I sigh. “I didn’t mean to come across like that.”

“Ok…” Harry ventures. “I am not sure what to say any more.”

“I think the best thing to do is to ask your female friends what I mean. They’ll be able to tell you what I want.”

“Aha,” he nods. “So you want me to ask a bunch of women who don’t know you what it is you want?”

“Yes,” I nod. Then, “No!” when I realise the ludicrousness of what I have just said. “I mean, just figure it out on your own!” I say, exasperated.

“I think the only thing I know is that I need to go home now,” Harry says gravely. Then he puts down his fork and knife, takes a last sip from his glass, stands up, walks out, and leaves me staring at our plates wondering what just happened here.