Tell Me About Her

On a first date with someone new, I talked about my ex for forty minutes. She paid for the drinks and told me to go.

Her name was Jess. Hinge, a Thursday, a quiet bar with low lights and cheap negronis. She was easy to talk to. Warm. She laughed at my jokes in the right places. For a moment, I thought, maybe this is how it starts. Maybe this is me, finally moving on.

Then she asked, "So, what happened with your last relationship?"

Simple question. Standard first date stuff. I opened my mouth and out it all came.

Her name was Amy. Three years. She was left-handed, so we always bumped elbows at dinner. She hated mushrooms but ate them anyway when I cooked. She cried at adverts. She called me "Pickle" for reasons I never understood. I told Jess about the night we got locked out of our flat. The way Amy hummed when she was stressed. How she smelled like oranges in the morning.

Forty minutes. Jess didn't interrupt once. She just listened, chin on her hand, a soft smile on her face.

When I finally stopped, embarrassed, I said, "God, sorry. That was a lot."

She shook her head. Pulled out her card. Paid for both of us.

"Don't apologise," she said. "I've never heard someone describe a person like that."

She stood, slung her bag over her shoulder.

"I'm not the right person to hear it, though."

She squeezed my arm.

"Go tell her."