The following week, I went on a lunch date with the Cafe Nero boy.

We met in the same place at the same time, on an equally sunny day.

Last week, I remembered ‘Elio’ as a cool arty type. I remembered a pleasantly foreign face and an insouciant charm.

This week – he seemed quite different.

This week he was still arty (a little too arty it seems), he was still foreign looking (perhaps a little too foreign) and he still had a certain sort of charm, but he certainly was not the stud I’d built him up to be.

Two minutes into my frothy cappuccino and the boy lanced into a full blown soliloquy. I mean it’s all very well to discuss inner feelings and cultural beliefs with someone, but this was only our second encounter after all.

It was all a little too much too soon, and quite frankly I wasn’t ready for it.

When ‘Elio’ asked me to talk to him in French, I became a little wary. When he said that my eyes were the colour of oak, I bolted. I’ve heard of eyes being described as windows to the soul, but  NEVER compared to a bog-standard English tree.

Shame, this meeting could have been a nice little histoire d’amour. Alas, I will just have to roll my oak coloured eyes and continue to search for Mr Right, (not at Cafe Nero mind you.)

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