The second burst

Brick Lane, last Sunday 6pm

It's a second date with Ben (the English teacher). I come out of Aldgate East station and give Ben a call. It's ringing but there is no answer.

I glance at the entrance to the Whitechapel art gallery, where I went yesterday with Gunter, the German artist. The exhibition we saw is still with me - French artist Sophie Calle, sends her lover's break up letter to 107 women to analyse it. The women were chosen for their professions and skills – head hunter, tarot reader, psychiatrist, ballet dancer, and a cook, among many others. Some women sung it, some danced it, and some slept with the letter. Overall, the guy was proclaimed a manipulating seducer, and a self-centred asshole. The female police detective even recommended 'Avoid at all cost'. Admittedly, the letter itself was a beautiful piece of work.

This exhibition brought back memories of the text message Mr TV Director sent me six weeks ago 'I have always been honest with you. I am not seeing anyone else. But I don't want a relationship. I never wanted anything serious. It is probably best if we don't see each other.' I burst in to tears when I read it. His text was a reply to inevitable questions. We couldn't meet up because he was working on a documentary, day and night, for a month…I then started to suspect he was seeing someone else and finally, at the peak of my obsession I texted him 'Dan. Be honest with me. If you are not planning to see me and have met someone else, then tell me so… And I can move on'.

I start walking and look for a quiet bar on Brick Lane. It is freezing, but it doesn't stop Indian restaurants' waiters from standing outside and trying to snatch clients. They are even louder tonight, animated and friendly, to keep warm perhaps.

My mobile rings, it's Ben, he is ahead of me, but is willing to come back to meet me half way. He sounds sweet and affectionate.

We kiss on cheeks at 'hello'. I try to catch his scent. Nothing. We walk in silence for a while. 'This is the one' says Ben pointing at the bar he finds suitable. We walk in, order mojitos and take it to the snug looking sofa, where we sit down, facing each other.

Ben seems melancholic tonight. He asks me about my future plans (again) and questions the little amount of information I revealed about myself on my on-line dating profile. Is he doubtful if I am ready for relationship? Well, I might not be ready, I suspect. Now I stop caring about what he thinks. I like him, but I just want to be myself, and wish he stopped asking about things, I have no answers to.

Now it's my turn to explore if he is right for me! He mentions his father is a doctor. I ask lightly if he is a gynaecologist, and soon feel ready to confess to my fantasies about doctors, dentists and gynaecologists. Ben looks at me with a mixture of surprise and delight, and… gets into a role play. He actually pretends to be a doctor for me! He is good. We look at each other and smile. I turn my head away to hide that I blush, but instantly my face is being pooled up and I feel Ben's warm lips on mine, then his tongue inside my mouth. He is gentle yet he holds me tight. I can smell him now. I breathe in a faint aroma of aftershave. He strokes my chin and cheek, keeps kissing my lips. I search for his hand, stroke inside of his palm, he grips my hand and I push my fingernails inside his, while biting his lip. He gently pulls away, but is still holding me close. We stay like this for the rest of the evening, while whispering memories of our childhoods and past loves.

I could not sleep that night – it must have been the sugar in mojitos.