Razor blade

All I saw was her defined back through her low cut top, and a rose tattoo over the left shoulder blade, barely visible ink fading on her dark skin. The way she strolled without a care in the world. What an intriguing woman. She was walking back with her best friend from Camden Market the first Sunday after it reopened.

I introduced myself, she was smitten, I was smitten. We texted throughout the week and met on the weekend. A walk in Hyde Park, drinks in Soho. Delivery and wine at mine. Sex. Breakfast. Goodbye. It was the perfect date. 

We met twice more the following weeks. But while my attraction grew, dare I say, into feelings, hers seems to have faded. Her replies on text were still prompt, but they became short. Nowadays, my mind’s a vicious razor blade when I sense even slightly reduced interest. I cut all contact. I deleted her number. ‘If she wants to, she’ll get in touch’; of course she never did. 

Now she’s a memory already, but one that will stay with me for a while. In a good way.