Mall

It was going to be a disaster from the very first moment we agreed to go out. I’d met her on a dating website and we’d got on pretty well, but then we decided to meet and she said this:

“How about we meet at the mall?” The mall. The mall. In fucking Folkestone.

“The mall?”

“Yeah.”

“The shopping centre?”

“That’s what I said.”

That wasn’t what she said, but it didn’t seem like it was worth explaining to her why that wasn’t what she said, because that was the moment a loud alarm should have started going off and a huge red sign with the words “ABORT, ABORT” on it should have started flashing. I should have made my excuses. “Actually the shopping centre’s no good,” I should have said. “I’m banned from there for. . . reasons.”

“What reasons?” she’d have asked me, and I wouldn’t have told her. I’d say it was private and she’d instantly assume I’d done some kind of sexual assault or something because that’s where people’s minds tend to go straight away these days, isn’t it? It’d have the desired effect, though. Either she’d suddenly get “sick” or something and decide we couldn’t go out with each other, or she’d let bygones be bygones and we still meet up but at that point it would have to be somewhere else. At that point the “ABORT” alarm would probably explode in overuse because if she’s totally fine with going out with a sexual predator what on earth is wrong with her?

Anyway, none of that happened, because despite the alarm bells in my head I said: “okay, let’s meet at the mall. Four on Saturday?”

I hated myself instantly, for just about everything that I’d just said. I’d used the word “mall” despite spending 0.0% of my life within 3,000 miles of the United States. I’d actually agreed to go on a date at the mall, even though I was a 34 year old man rather than a thirteen year old boy. And then, worst of all, and for reasons that I still couldn’t work out, I’d suggested four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. Yeah, that would be fun, I’d meet her there when all the people for whom a day at a shopping centre is actually a proper date would be there. Those aforementioned thirteen year old boys. What on earth were we going to do at a shopping centre at four on a Saturday? We could look for some shoes. Maybe buy the latest Beyonce album or whatever it looks like would impress her. Then what? Dinner? At half past four? Should I be suggesting McDonald’s for that, just to complete the “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing” theme? Luckily, there was still an out. She’d see how absurd an idea it was and suggest meeting later, sometime around seven or eight when we could go dinner somewhere nice.

“Four sounds great,” she said. Of course she did. This was a woman that suggested we have a date at a mall.

ABORT. ABORT.

And so along I went.