Young

He smiled when he saw me park my bike outside. "I should ask for his name" - I thought.

"It's the last one!" - I exclaimed when I walked in.
"Do you want these trousers shorter?These must be for dancing! Could you dance for me?"
I did some basic steps, a turn, some lady styling.
"Beautiful. I would love to dance like this. I would love to dance with you! I'd take your hand and lead you to the dance floor."
"Take lessons. I think you'd be a good dancer."
He held his pen ready: "What's your name?"
I pretended to stare in disbelief: "You're not telling me you forgot! It's Alexandra."
He didn't ask for my number, but I was so used to giving it (not that they ever call me if my clothes are ready) that I started reading out my number anyway. I asked for his name.
"May I ask you how old you are? I realise you're not as young as I am but I'm curious."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty one."
"Wow, that's long ago! I am thirty six."
His eyes widened for a moment. "Are you serious? I thought you were somewhere in your twenties."
"Thank you." I smiled at the thought how easy it is to make a woman happy. A small flattering lie is enough.
"When will we see each other again? No, I don't mean your trousers! I want you to teach me to dance."
"Text me when you're back from vacation and we'll set up a date."
He wrote his name and number on a small piece of paper and gave it to me together with the receipt.

On my way home I realised that my hair was still not dry from the recent shower and I wore no makeup or jewellery. As I opened my front door fifteen minutes later I heard a text message coming in. "A little sweet tender kiss from your future dance partner." Ehm... Right! Now I am confused.

On a sunless day in the The Hague