But surely this is hardly an event of note, you might cry, Gentle Reader.
The thing is, it kind of is.
To begin with, my over assertive independence means that I don’t usually ask for rides, unless it’s really late or totally on someone’s way. Second, I don’t know a lot of people with cars in Delhi–the only ones have been girls so far. Third, Delhi being the size it is, and my own laziness and poverty being what they are, I’m usually asking people to come to my house and drink cheap whiskey.
Anyway, the thing with this boy is that the last time we hung out, surprising–to me at any rate, since I had no idea he was so inclined–events transpired. Not very many, and since I’m trying to neither talk nor think about this situation (and failing on both counts) I shall stop there. The idea was that we go get drinks and dinner, and since it was late I asked him for a ride home. At which point he said, yeah I’ll pick you up too. And thus, there I was, at 8.45pm, running down the stairs from salsa class to jump into a car that was waiting for me downstairs, with the air conditioning running, and smelling of cigarette smoke, driven by a smiling boy in work clothes.
It really took me back back back to before BBot and I were dating, when he did give me the occasional ride, and of course, back to when we were dating, and he always drove me everywhere. Maybe that’s why the very fact of being picked up, and then being dropped off, as close as possible to the stairs to my flat, and then running up the stairs after a quick goodbye hug, felt so disproportionately gleeful.
And no, I don’t know if it was a date. It could have been one, but only the context of those events.