Joe was strangely silent for a good ten seconds. And let me tell you that ten seconds of waiting to be mocked is a really long, frustrating time. I had plenty of time to brace myself for his sudden dislike, and even time to count four heart-beats. Which just goes to show how anxious this waiting-game made me.

I watched his eyes strobe around the room, and a small nod. Then he opened his mouth to say something, and of course, our food arrived.

The young waiter really made an effort. I'll give him that. But for all the effect his questions about sauces and cutlery had on either of us, he might as well have been a background TV. Because as Joe-Moe raised his eyes to speak, that same instinctive understanding crossed the gap between us. And for some reason, I could see that he believed me. 

Once our waiter had "enjoy-your-mealed" away, I ended up talking first.

"You're supposed to laugh," I said, taking my feet off my chair so I could lean toward him. "Come on, Joe. Follow the script."

I wonder if he could hear that my voice was shaking. I could darn-well hear it. 

"When did it start happening?" he asked, leaning toward me too. I was still cold - still shivering in his hoodie - but I could feel my face heating up with the proximity. 

"Are you serious?" 

"Why not?" he asked, with a small smile. "Come on. Tell me."

It's funny how many times I'd practised saying this to people. It's been something I've wanted to share for most of my life. But it was so unexpected actually being asked that I couldn't figure out how to make any sense. 

"Since my Dad - he died. I guess that was it."

Joe-Moe narrowed his eyes, considering. "You missed him? And you wanted your Mom to find someone else?"

"Yes." It was a whisper. I hadn't even had to explain.

"Could you do it on purpose?" he asked, glancing around the diner with an expression I could only describe as eager.

"As an experiment?" I asked him. "Do you think that's fair on anyone?"

"Who's going to mind finding the love of their life?" he asked me. 

I didn't have anything to say to that, and so I looked around too. I saw several couples, one of whom looked like they could barely keep their hands off each other. The rest looked like they were more in-the-habit than desperately in love. But none of them looked lonely. 

And then I saw the diner's host: the slightly soft-round-the-edges head waiter. He was over by the door, pretending to check through the menu, whilst casting glances up at the cute twenty-something couple who kept holding hands across the table, and who were leaning close enough to breathe in each other's air. 

I recognised his expression. I knew it was exactly how I looked when I saw some of the happy couples I'd helped to create. It was sadness; and well-wishing; and envy; and guilt that I couldn't just be happy for them. All wrapped up into one. 

Without ever talking to him, I felt for this guy. 

And that was it. I wasn't trying to control it, and it was like feeling metal move towards a magnet. It was already happening. 

"Are you doing it?" Joe murmured.

"Shhh," I said, concentrating on that magnetic feeling and the rushing acceleration that was coming with it. Whoever he found, they were close now. I wondered if it would be a girl or a boy; young or old; pretty or plain. It didn't matter, but I'd never stopped being curious. 

She rushed in out of the rain, her hair plastered to the sides of her cheeks and her square-framed glasses steamed up. I saw the waiter raise his head, and his mouth drop open.

"Is there a phone anywhere I could use?" she asked, tugging the glasses off and trying to wipe them on her short, slightly hippy dress. "I got a flat, and my phone's totally dead. I can't get anything to-"

She finally looked at him, and the words all dried up. It was so cliched that it was almost annoying. At least, it was cliched to me. I guess you get to be pretty unimpressed with romance when you see it as often as I do.

"Of course you can. Come and sit down," he said to her, beckoning her over to a chair. I could see how gently he moved around her tiny form, and how much he wanted to touch her. "But if it's a flat, I'm sure I can fix it."

"You can?" She seemed pathetically grateful, and I couldn't help tutting loudly.

I found Joe grinning at me. 

"You really don't like the damsel in distress thing, huh?" 

"You were getting that vibe, were you?" But there was something so shiny and excited in his expression that I couldn't help smiling while I said it. And then I finally remembered my soup, which wouldn't be unbelievably hot for that long, and I started spooning it down while Joe watched the waiter and the brand-new love-of-his-life work out that she didn't really need to go anywhere at all tonight when there were rooms at the inn.

Our own waiter cast them a glance as he brought us our main courses, mercifully before we'd quite finished. I was able to gorge myself while Joe ate half-heartedly. He was clearly thinking something over. 

"It's kind-of ironic," he said, in the end.

"That's a big word," I muttered.

"I know some bigger ones," he replied. "How about 'misanthropic'?"

"Ooh, four syllables."

"And look, I can string them together into one sentence." He ate three fries at once, and then, whilst chewing, said, "It's ironic how misanthropic a gift based on love and liking has made you."

I've spent a long time cultivating my hard-ass persona, but it stung to hear him say that. It was like he was assuming that I was as cold and hard as the person I pretended to be. Had he really not understood? Did he think I didn't like anyone?

"What is it?" he asked, as I put my knife and fork down. I no longer felt like eating. 

"Can we go soon?" I asked him, quietly. "I've had enough now."

"I - sure." 

He gestured for the bill in that universal sign-language, and then finally set to eating properly. I watched the head waiter and his new girl instead, seeing the differences in their ages, and in their hair and clothes, and knowing that it didn't matter a bit.

I told Joe I was going to pay him back every penny for this. He tried to argue, but I gave him a look, and it silenced him this time. 

"A cab fare would've been a lot more," I muttered as the waiter took his card.

"But maybe better company," Joe said.

I knew he was trying to make me laugh, but I couldn't laugh just then. I shrugged a shoulder, and stood to go.

Joe was silent until we reached his beat-up old car. It was still raining, and I pulled the hood of his sweater up, hoping it would hide a little of my face, too. If I had to feel like he'd hurt me, at least he didn't have to see. 

But instead of unlocking the car when we got there, he stopped with the key in his hand, and said, "Did I - did I say something that upset you?"

"Don't be stupid," I said, flatly and immediately. 

"So what's up?" 

It's the worst question in the world when you're hurting, and you don't want to show it. I couldn't even tell him I was just tired and cold, because for some reason my throat wouldn't work properly. 

"Come on, tell me." He took a step towards me, and I reacted by turning further away. "You were almost starting to warm up in there and act like a normal human being."

Somehow being able to say, "Fuck you," was easier than anything else, but it was a choked-up, tearful kind of a comment. 

"I don't believe in the hating-everyone thing, you know," he said, really quietly, really close to my ear. "And I wasn't - I wasn't saying it was your fault."

"Not my fault that I'm such a bitch?" I asked, rounding on him. 

Stay angry with him, stay angry, the rational, been-hurt-too-many-times part of my mind told me. 

"Not your fault that it hurts every time you lose someone," he said, disagreeing. "Not your fault that you actually care, and that leaves you vulnerable over and over again. And  not your fault that you try and protect yourself by pushing everyone away."

"Stop psychoanalysing me," I said, smiling slightly now. I didn't want him to stop. I wanted him to go on talking, telling me that I wasn't a terrible person. And when he lifted my hand and knotted his fingers through it, I didn't want him to stop doing that, either. 

"OK," he said, and gave me one of those long, slow looks that did weird things to my insides. "Can I try something else instead?"

"Depends what..."

I'm actually not sure who moved first. It might have been him; and I hope it was him. But we went from that poised, charged position to a very different one in a heartbeat. 

My arms were round him, and I could feel his hands on my back, pressing me into him. Our mouths were together, a kiss that was so hot and sweet and soft that it stopped every last thought of resisting and being strong. 

I don't think I've ever felt such desire for someone. I could feel it in him, too; in the way our bodies were pressed together from our thighs right up to our chests, with his hard-on only a part of the intensity of it all.

It's probably a good thing it was raining, or who knows how out-of-control that car park kiss would have gotten. As it was, eventually the hood was soaked through and I had ice-cold water running down my nose. Even in my weakest moments, I've never been romantic enough to put up with that kind of thing.

I drew back from him just enough to talk. 

"Can we get in the car now?" I asked.

"Only if you do that again," he said.

"I shouldn't-" 

He leaned in again and gave me one long, slow, lingering kiss before drawing away.

"OK," I relented. "It's a deal."