A contribution for Sunday Scribblings.

I surreptitiously looked at my watch and sighed. My date was boring me, and I wondered how long it would be before I could decently leave without seeming rude.

I would see him again at the next meeting of the Genealogy Society so it would be awkward if we parted on bad terms, and really, I’d always liked him. George was extremely attractive, and a very charming man … but it seemed that when he he’d got a few drinks inside him he became talkative. We were on our third round, and George was very, very talkative. In fact, I hadn’t been able to get a word in edgewise for about twenty minutes.

And it was only half past nine.

I shifted in my seat, and took a sip of my coke. Perhaps that was the trouble? Perhaps I’d be having a marvellous time too, chatting away right along with George and laughing merrily, if only I wasn’t on antibiotics for a tooth abscess and off alcohol for the duration?

I tried to focus my attention.

‘ … so I went back to the LDS library, as you do, and I sat there for two hours, going through the microfiche. I looked at the 1841 Census records, and then I tried the Trade Directories. I even went through all the Land Returns, right back as far as the records went .. and nothing. Nothing! So I thought perhaps I should try the Passenger Lists for the ships coming into Liverpool … ‘

I watched his lips moving as he continued on with his tale of tracing Great-great-great Grandfather Whitbread, whose origins appeared to be truly lost. He had beautiful lips. They curved into the kind of cupid’s bow which looked really good on a man: firm, shapely, yet soft. I think it was his mouth which had made me agree to come out with him - I’d wanted to kiss him and find out if it felt as good as it looked. Watching him take his turn to speak at the meetings, I had thought that I could be mesmerised by those lips for hours. However, now that I had the chance, I realised that the pleasure of seeing those lips in motion simply wasn’t enough to make up for the sheer tedium of his conversation.

‘ … even the name is a clue,’ he was saying. ‘You know, the name Whitbread was only given to men of the upper classes because they were the only ones who could afford to eat white bread. Everyone else ate dark, roughly-milled stuff. It must have been horrible, but I suppose the peasants didn’t know any better … Anyway, my Great-great-great Grandfather wasn’t … ‘

I swallowed some more coke, wishing it had a slug or two of rum in it.

‘Do you think … ‘ I began. But George took no notice. The tide of his words carried him along and rolled over me. I felt a bit like a surfer caught in an undertow.

‘ … and do you know what? Eventually, I got hold of the key to the parish chest in Little Bardock - the vicar was with me, of course - they don’t let you go through those things alone - and I found some papers … ‘

‘That’s quite an achieve - … ‘

‘ … so apparently, my ancestors were quite well-born, and I thought I’d just check out the listings in the … ‘

I gazed at him over my glass, gritting my teeth, which was a mistake, so I made a conscious effort to unclench my jaw and relax. A lock of George’s dark hair had fallen loose as he talked, and a tiny crease of concentration marred the perfection of his brow. With detached interest I studied the lovely straight nose, and the classically beautiful bone structure of his jawline. His eyes … I remembered that I’d thought his eyes were very sexy. Full of sparkle and the promise of certain, very private, pleasures. But now I saw that they would never be totally lost in admiration of anyone but his own self in the mirror. And there was nothing attractive about that.

‘ … and at last, I managed to confirm what I suspected! I am descended from a line of noblemen! There may even be a connection to royalty if I go back far enough, so what I’m going to do next is .. ‘

Oh, to hell with the genealogy society. I got to my feet. It’s funny what a few days of constant niggling pain will do to a normally tolerant person.

Going around to his side of the table, I picked up his pint - which he’d hardly had time to touch, what with all the talking he’d been doing - and with one rather elegant movement, I emptied it gently over his head. I took my time, making sure that I covered the beautiful dark hair completely, and I made a particular effort to see if I couldn’t trickle a little into his ear. It proved impossible, so I contented myself with aiming it right down his neck, noting that the froth made an interesting pattern on his dark shirt, bubbling randomly over the geometric pattern in a very satisfying way. I swear he didn’t actually stop talking until it was completely empty, and I had placed the empty tankard quietly on the table in front of him.

I looked him straight in the eye, and spoke in my most dulcet tones. ‘Really, George, that’s all very interesting. Now, me, I come from a long line of peasant farmers and shopkeepers, with the odd publican thrown in for good measure, and you know what riff-raff they are.’

I turned and picked up my coat. When I looked around, he was staring at me, wide eyed, and speechless at last.

‘I’m so sorry about that’, I said. ‘Old habits die hard.’

And peering over the edge of the table to where the dark, wet, yeasty stain was spreading over the crotch of his denims, I whispered -

‘It’s in the genes.’