I was 31. There was 10 years between us. We met at work; he was doing some kind of graduate placement. It sounds like some kind of Mrs Robinson thing, and if I’d seen that film I’d be able to comment on whether there were any similarities. As it is, I haven’t, so I can’t.
We were just colleagues that hung out as part of a bigger group, heading out for drinks on a Friday and sometimes ending up in a club dancing like loons at 4am, but after a short while we became friends in our own right. He was surprisingly wise for his years and a lovely person to be around. He had a girlfriend and I was dicking about with the man who broke my heart (a little bit), and we’d often chat about how neither of them were quite going particularly well.
There was definitely a mutual attraction, despite the age gap, but if I remember rightly it wasn’t really one of those things that either of us thought was on the cards, we genuinely just enjoyed each other’s company and friendship. Nothing happened until I was down in London for a weekend after he’d moved there and we were both single.
He was (still is, I’m sure) a total gentleman, one of those types that walks on the outside of the pavement (you know, like from ye olden days), carries your bags, holds the door open and takes a genuine interest. An incredibly kind, considerate and respectful man. Somehow it feels disrespectful of me to divulge too much about our time together on here, especially as I’ve kept it anonymous but he might read it.
So in brief, we had a lovely weekend together, one full of fun, freedom, innocence and a knowledge of no need for complications, on the unspoken understanding that there was no longevity or future for us.
We met up a few times after that – just as friends – and kept up with each other’s lives. He met a girl (one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen) and our friendship trailed off, as these things do. They’re engaged now; two incredibly happy beautiful people who seem so very well suited, and it makes me smile.