Date Night

The problem with scheduled romance.

On the night we were due to go out to a gig, the wife was still feral in the garden at 5pm.

‘What time do you want to leave?’ I queried, knowing exactly what time we needed to leave as I’d planned the route three days ago.

It was HER date night, she booked the tickets, so whoever arranges the date is meant to do the date admin like booking the babysitter and sorting timings.

‘I don’t know,’ she mutters, looking vaguely annoyed I’d brought up our impending departure.

We agreed we’d leave at 6pm when the babysitter was due, she returned to the garden and I ate dinner with the child.

At 6pm, she came upstairs looking 1000% more glamorous than she did an hour ago and went and sat on the couch, dinner balanced on her lap, body twisted away.

‘Are you angry with me?’ I ask, sitting next to her.

‘Not with you. I’m angry that I have to stop being in the garden. It’s not finished.’

The garden has never been and will never be ‘finished’. So, she’s angry at having to stop digging holes to go on a date that SHE organised. The hyper focus is emanating from her pores so I diplomatically avoid any further conversation.

When we get to the venue, she’s beyond excited that we’re out, in public, with other adults doing an adult thing, garden long forgotten.

The singer comes out on stage and calls out into the darkness, ‘Helloooo Christchurch!’

‘Hi!’ she yells back.

‘My name is Fiona!’

I folded myself into the gap between the seat and its back support. It wasn’t super loud, don’t get me wrong, but still, keep that shit in your head.

As much as I’m used to being on stage for work, in an audience setting, I want zero attention which means everyone sitting near to me needs to behave impeccably whether they’re in my group or not.

The other week at a music event in a seated, very well-behaved audience, a person just in front of me found a way to rebel by being the last clapper. Who does that? Every polite round of applause, they added one lonely clap — just late enough to break unspoken social laws.

Anyway, after I remind her that we don’t try to start personal conversations with the talent, we enjoy the first half.

Upon returning to our seats after the intermission in which she’s downed a bag of sweets and a second glass of wine, she leans over to kiss my cheek and instead, chooses to lick my face.

I turn to her, incredulous; the house lights are up and people are sitting less than a metre behind us.

‘People will think that’s how lesbians kiss,’ I hissed at her.

There is a lot of public hissing in our relationship.

‘Sorry! That’ll be the sugar,’ she grins maniacally with a dopamine glaze in her eye.

Again, I press myself grimly into my seat. This is simply not impeccable audience behaviour.