A friend from work had had a bad date.
As had my friend's friend.
So, accidentally, they were out together.
"Thing is," said my friend from work, "I think he really fancies you. Yeah, I know."
The guy who fancied me was an artist. He paints portraits on commission while he's developing his own serious work. And hates it.
"Haha!" I laughed, "At least you're not painting pets."
"Actually, I've just done a King Charles Spaniel watercolour."
But he still let me walk back to his car.
While I rather like that awkward pause before a goodbye snog, it's also a little horrid isn't it? Especially when the Artist was being a bit odd.
"Oh, I can't," he said suddenly.
"Your friend told me you're only here for another few months. I'm not interested in a relationship that'll last less than six months."
We went and sat down in a courtyard outside a call centre. "I just can't commit to anything... short term," he said. "I wish I could - dear god, at university i shagged my way through the GaySoc, but not now. I just feel that one night stands are a form of abuse, don't you?"
"More of a hobby," I said without thinking. "What did you say? Abuse?"
He ran his hands through his really very lovely hair. There was a lot of it - you could have hidden chewing gum in it. "Yeah, I've always thought that I'm just abusing someone's body for an evening. It feels wrong."
I stopped myself whimpering "-but oh so right," and instead managed a sincere nod.
"So you're saying you won't come back?"
"No. Even sitting kissing you here feels wrong. But you're incredibly my type. I'd love to..."
"Absolutely. But it would be wrong. I wouldn't know how to treat you afterwards. And I really just want a long-term life partner I can talk to about my art."
And then, dear reader, I made a big mistake. "So," I said, "Tell me about your art."
Is there anything worse on a hot summer night than sitting next to an attractive man who fancies you rotten but won't have sex with you? Yes, it's hearing him describe in desperate detail his concept for art.
But, I heard him out. I nodded. I smiled. I made sympathetic noises while realising, creepily, that he worked in isolation in a portacabin by the sea and had no real social contact with anyone. Worryingly.
By this time it was very late. "Oh, I'm so tempted," he said, "But I know I'd just use your body, and I'll feel awkward about it and be weird around you when I next see you. And I'd hate that."
So he went. And the next time he saw me, he was weird around me. I hated that.