Kevin wants to meet me at a pub.
It doesn’t sound like a romantic place to meet for the first time, but perhaps that’s better. Less pressure. I’m all up for simply meeting someone nice. No expectations. Other people do this sort of thing all the time—they meet up, they chat, and then they determine, independently, if they want to continue the acquaintance. That’s how civilisation works. I tell myself this repeatedly as I step into the dingy little hole that calls itself a pub, with the sticky floors and tables, everything smelling of damp, dirty washcloths. It’s a popular place, though, judging by the braying, sweating crowds I have to push past, and the amount of time it takes me to order a beer. I wonder whether I should buy one for Kevin as well. But I don’t know what he drinks. And I
