Vignette #212 – the beginning of an affair

 

About 18 months after my first child was born, I found myself at an IT journalists' awards night, the sort of self-congratulatory event I generally hated because I’d long before reached the conclusion that most journos were self-important bores whose conversational repertoire only extended as far as how great they were, and their latest scoop.

 

So why was I there? I was a senior editor on a national paper -  I think we were up for some gongs and so it would’ve been bad optics not to attend. Besides, despite loathing the company of most journos, there were some old colleagues I liked, and it was a good opportunity to catch up. And unlike most journos, I generally found the PR folks in attendance to be good value, with a much richer world view and more interesting ways of looking at things than many of those on the other side of the fence. The drinks were also free: it would take a brave person to stand between a hack and complimentary booze. 

 

After the ceremony was over, I stood on the deck outside the venue smoking, drinking and shooting the shit. In the corner of my eye I noticed a woman push her way into our circle, then come and stand in front of me and say “hi.”

 

“Who the fuck are you?” I asked. 

 

There was a heartbeat pause. She lit a smoke, took a drag while holding my gaze with her piercing green eyes, exhaled and then replied, “someone you should get to know.”

 

Now this was interesting. I vaguely recognised her face, but that was it. “What’s your name?” I asked. 

 

“Sofia”

 

“I’m Josh.”

 

“I know.”

 

The circle of colleagues faded. She had my attention. Sofia was beautiful; petite, with dark hair that fell in soft waves to just above her shoulders. Just my thing. 

 

We started chatting and discovered a mutual love of bands like The Brian Jonestown Massacre and Spiritualized. Like me, Sofia was an IT journo, but she had bigger ambitions. She wanted to write about music and travel, art and literature, and tech journalism was just a stepping stone. 

 

After about 20 minutes she leant in and whispered in my ear, “these people are boring, let’s get out of here.” I nodded, and without saying any goodbyes we made a beeline for the exit, agreeing to jump in a cab to head for a seedy sticky-floor pub downtown. Turns out we both loved places like that too. 

 

Ten minutes later we arrived, grabbed drinks from the bar and found a quiet, dimly lit booth in the corner, the congealed beer rings and half full ashtray on the table evidence of its previous occupants. 

 

The conversation came easily, and she matched me schooner for schooner without any obvious effect. Sofia also shared my fondness for Peter Stuyvesant Filters, and it crossed my mind that buying a few extra decks earlier in the evening had been a good idea.

 

She told me she was married, but unhappy. I cautiously admitted I was in the same situation, that I’d realised fatherhood and domesticity were not what I wanted.

 

We kept talking, drinking and smoking, and in the early hours of the morning the bartender eventually called time. We drained our glasses and headed out the door into the cool night air, the only movement in the street being the urban tumbleweeds of discarded chip packets and soft drink cans blown along by the breeze.

 

For the first time in the night our conversation paused. Sofia moved closer, tilted her head up and I leant in. We kissed, a firm, decisive kiss without any of the sloppiness that I find such a turn off. 

 

Then she broke away. 

“Uhhh, I guess I better get going,” she said. 

“Yeah, me too.” 

A cab pulled up, Sofia squeezed my hand, said goodbye and jumped in the back. I watched its taillights slowly recede up the street and stood for a few minutes, my mind empty, before hailing my own taxi. 

 

I climbed in, gave the driver my destination and hoped he didn’t want to make small talk. The night had taken an unexpected turn, and I had a lot to think about. Fifteen minutes or so later my reverie was broken by a beep from my bag. I pulled my phone out, the green glow of the Nokia’s tiny screen faintly illuminating the cabin. 

 

It was her. The message was short and simple. All it said was, “uh oh, uh oh, here we go.”

 

And that’s how it started.