A Date Without a Scoreboard

Rafa arrived for our first date carrying an umbrella.

The sky was blue.

“You've checked the forecast?” I asked.

“I've met English weather.”

He wore dark jeans and a pale shirt open at the throat. I resented the shirt on principle. I'd changed three times and finally settled on a green T-shirt Molly had once described as bringing out my eyes, a piece of information I now intended to deny possessing.

Rafa looked at me for a moment too long.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing. You look good.”

I locked my front door with unnecessary concentration.

“So do you. Obviously. You've made an effort to be irritating.”

We drove along the coast to a smaller town where the harbour held fishing boats instead of enormous private yachts. There were tourists, families, dogs, and no one who appeared particularly interested in our league positions.

At a café with blue-painted chairs, Rafa asked what I wanted to eat and listened to the answer rather than ordering something he thought I ought to have.

A small kindness. I noticed those now.

We shared a table outside. He told me about his sister Inês, who repaired bicycles and had once made him pay to replace a window he'd broken with a ball at fourteen.

“Did you pay?”

“In instalments. She charged interest.”

“I like her.”

“You would.”

I told him about Molly's disastrous garden, my parents' habit of calling every match exciting regardless of the score, the youth coach who used to make me collect cones because I couldn't stop talking.

“Did it work?” Rafa asked.

“You're experiencing the results.”

After lunch, we found an old record shop. Rafa went through a box of Portuguese records with such unexpected delight that I stayed beside him simply to watch.

He held up an album.

“My dad played this on Sundays.”

“Sad piano man?”

“Different sad man. Guitar.”

“Variety. Excellent.”

He elbowed me gently and turned the sleeve over, translating a few lines from the back. His face had changed. There was a boy in it suddenly, someone who'd stood in a kitchen while lunch cooked and his father sang badly.

I bought the record while he looked at another shelf.

He caught me holding the bag outside.

“Owen.”

“It was inexpensive. Don't become emotional.”

“I don't have a record player.”

“I didn't promise it was a useful present.”

He took it from me, careful with the corners.

“Thank you.”

I shrugged, finding the pavement fascinating.

“I wanted you to have it.”

His fingers brushed my wrist. “I'm glad.”

On the pier, we played a ridiculous game involving throwing balls into moving baskets. I assumed years of professional sport would translate into some basic competence.

Rafa beat me three times.

“The machinery is biased,” I said.

“Against you specifically?”

“It recognises talent and increases the difficulty.”

He chose a small stuffed gull from the prizes and handed it to me.

“For your suffering.”

I tucked it under my arm. “I'm naming him Marcus.”

“Don't tell the coach.”

“He'll be honoured. Similar expression.”

We walked along the quieter end of the beach, our shoes in our hands. When his little finger touched mine, I took his whole hand.

He looked down and smiled.

“Don't make a thing of it,” I said.

“I haven't said anything.”

“You're being loud with your face.”

We stopped where the wind sheltered us beside a weathered wooden barrier. I took out my phone for a photograph.

Rafa immediately looked like a man renewing his passport under duress.

“Relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

“You look like you've discovered tax fraud.”

I made a face at him. His laugh arrived before I pressed the button, and I caught it: head slightly lowered, eyes bright, his hand reaching towards me.

He looked at the result.

“You should be in it.”

So we took another. My cheek against his. Both of us laughing because the stuffed gull had intruded into the frame.

I saved that one as his contact picture.

Back at my house, I kissed him while searching my jacket for the key.

He let me go with a look of mild offence.

“That was barely a kiss.”

“It was a perfectly good kiss.”

“You were looking for your keys.”

“Would you prefer we slept on the doorstep?”

“I'd prefer your attention for three seconds.”

The honesty in that made me stop.

I found the keys, set them on the low wall, and turned fully towards him. Then I put both hands against his face.

“All right,” I said. “You have my full attention.”

His expression softened before I kissed him.

This time, I took my time.

And when I finally opened the door, he followed me inside carrying a record, an unnecessary umbrella, and a stuffed gull I had absolutely no intention of giving back.