‘An activity between two mutually attracted people which very often ends in one or both leaving sexually frustrated.’
Finally, bizarrely, he laughed. A funny half-laugh that seemed like he wasn’t sure if he was laughing or clearing his throat. Then he threw up his hands and said, ‘You know what . . . sure. I’m free Saturday?’
‘Me too, after karate.’
He nods. ‘What would you like to do?’
I realised a picnic was the only real option for our date, considering I don’t go to restaurants or shopping malls and the movies can be troubling if the sound is too loud or the smell of popcorn too strong. Wally stiffly agreed, and then, as if the heavens had been smiling upon us (a ridiculous expression, as heaven surely doesn’t have a face, let alone a mouth to smile with), the printer burst into life and started working and I was able to excuse myself and dash away before anyone else could ask for assistance.
Now, here we are. Fifteen minutes early.
I notice Wally is wearing the same black-framed glasses and buffalo flannelette button-down shirt with jeans and, of course, that same ridiculous hat. I have to admit, I find the sameness of him soothing. It’s always been unsettling to me, the way people change their appearance. Linda from the library, for example, changes her hair with frightening frequency. Not just the colour, but the style – some days straight, other days curled, other days scraped back to her scalp and glistening as if wet. Linda, of course, is an extreme example, but most people tend to change, at the very least, their clothes on a daily basis. A new pair of earrings or a brighter lipstick than normal. A change is as good as a holiday, the saying goes, but I’ve never found change or holidays appealing. For this reason, I am wearing my favourite sun-yellow skirt and rainbow T-shirt with comfortable sneakers. My only discomfort is that my lips feel tacky because this morning – after reading online that one should put effort into one’s appearance for a date – I’d applied lip gloss. I’d dearly love to remove it but find myself without anything in the way of a tissue or napkin.
‘What is it?’ Wally says.
‘What is what?’
‘You’re staring at me.’
‘Am I?’ I consider this a moment. Then I wonder how he even knows this, since his gaze appears to be over my left shoulder, as usual. ‘Staring competition?’ I venture. It seems as good an icebreaker as any. But after a promising start where Wally’s eyes widen slightly, he just gazes back over my shoulder. I wonder if he has an issue with his eyes.
‘Beat you!’ I exclaim.
His expression morphs into that funny smile-frown.
‘You’re no good at staring competitions,’ I remark, pulling my sandwiches out of my tote. As I offer Wally the sandwich I brought for him, he opens his own bag and pulls out an impressive haul – an artisan loaf, a wheel of Brie, a bag of grapes, even a block of dark chocolate. ‘My goodness!’
‘What?’
‘You’ve brought a veritable feast. Where did you get all of this?’
‘All this?’ he says, gesturing to the food. ‘I stole it.’
My mouth opens. ‘You stole it?’
He snorts. ‘Of course I didn’t steal it. What kind of person do you think I am? I got it from the supermarket!’
I am sceptical. ‘Why did you spend so much money, when you can’t even afford to live in a flat or a house?’
‘It’s not that I can’t afford a house . . . I live in my van as a . . . a–’
‘A lifestyle choice?’
‘Yes.’
‘Uh-huh.’ I unwrap my sandwich. I feel his eyes and find him watching me with a dull smile.
‘Well. You may not believe it, but I enjoy the simplicity of the van. But I do have enough money for food. I’m a freelance computer programmer remember?’ He retrieves a bread knife from his bag and begins slicing the loaf of bread, chuckling.
‘Why do you freelance? Surely you could get a permanent job as a computer programmer?’
‘I could.’ He keeps slicing.
‘But you don’t want to?’
He puts down the knife. ‘No.’
‘Another lifestyle choice?’
He grins. ‘Exactly.’
It’s an odd choice, but I find myself admiring him for it. I’ve often thought about the way people blindly fall into the footprints of their forefathers, getting jobs, buying homes, working hard and then dying.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘That’s very courageous of you, Wally.’
‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘Though my name is Rocco.’
‘You don’t look like a Rocco.’
He gives another snort. ‘And yet that’s exactly what I am.’
Wally arranges an elaborate-looking sandwich of cheese, sliced ham and tomato while I tuck into my honey-on-white. The date is going quite well so far, I think. We’ve made conversation; we’re consuming a meal. According to my research, that’s pretty much all there is to it. I’ve dismissed the possibility of getting pregnant today, obviously. Apart from the fact that it would be awkward and quite possibly illegal to have sexual intercourse in a park, I’m not ovulating. I know this because I bought some ovulation testing kits at the pharmacist, which tell me (by virtue of a smiley face in a small window) when ovulation is imminent. The booklet suggested testing around Day 10 of my cycle, with a view to ovulation occurring around Day 14, which, according to my calculations, means I’ll need a second date in just under a week to execute that part of the plan.
‘So tell me about van living,’ I say, swallowing a mouthful of sandwich. I’d pre-prepared the question. Asking questions is a tactic I use when small talk is required – it makes you appear interested while simultaneously putting all the effort of the conversation on the other party. ‘What do you like about it?’
Wally is lying on the blanket,
