Row 14B
questionable mango puree
I flew to Austria for 24 hours to go on a date.
The curated version looked great on Instagram (shameless plug: you can watch the viral video here).
But the real story starts in a toilet – where all dubious decisions tend to marinate.
Two weeks ago, I told a friend that I would become the kind of woman who doesn’t reroute her whole day for a maybe. Naturally, that same friend—the patron saint of reckless advice—appears on my lockscreen now, like divine intervention:
Wait you're rerouting your flight home to Austria for 24 hours to see a man who texted you at midnight?! I’m obsessed
Do it
But also never speak to him again.
Technically, it’s not chasing if you’re already at the airport…it’s just a quick 900 mile detour on the way home. At least, that’s what I whisper to my ego as I read her staccato texts whilst perched, somewhat cross-legged on the floor of the airport toilets in Nice. The only thing separating my bare thighs from the faded terracotta tiles is the jumper I’d packed as in-flight hand luggage. It’s supposed to save me from freezing onboard but now smells like a musty airport croissant after spending the past three hours crumpled into a ball at the bottom of my bag.
I snort. Loud enough that the woman in the stall opposite pauses mid-pee. Then I blot sweat from my upper lip with an oat milk latte receipt and use my pinkie finger to pat concealer under my eyes. I will always be in awe of the women who wake up at 4am to do their makeup for the airport like there’s a Met Gala boarding gate. But unfortunately, I am not one of them. Still, I feel no shame in committing such minor acts of public disgrace if it means I will avoid arriving in Austria—for a date—looking about as enticing as a damp crouton. God forbid that I step outside in a foreign country looking like a local disappointment.
Exactly one month ago today I locked eyes with the man I’m now flying across Europe for. We met at a private members club in London—the kind of place that calls itself exclusive but by Saturday night is bursting with plus-threes and distant acquaintances of someone who once dated the DJ. I hadn’t planned to be there. I’d stopped by on my way home from another event, acutely aware of how overdressed I was about to become in a room full of trainers and oversized tees. But the moment I walked in—heels clicking, curls perfectly coiled from a night of strategic flexi rods—his gaze stalled on me like I was the one thing that made his membership worth it.
It’s the kind of moment I keep framed in my imagination gallery. The high of the entrance. The story I rewatch in my mind when I wander through the mental archives, searching for the evidence I need to remind myself that I am her.
Historically, I’ve only ever worn dresses to funerals—and even then, I’d rather have died myself. But lately, I’ve found myself reaching for them more often, like I’m dressing for a version of myself that I’m still growing into. And now I understand why every woman needs a little black dress. Mine is satin. Halterneck. Open back. A hint of side-boob and just enough hemline to make you wonder. Not tight, but suggestive enough. Thankfully, he’s the kind of tall that renders all footwear politics irrelevant.
We drink Palomas. A shared love of bad decisions.
There’s a noticeable charge between us all night. The kind of chemistry that doesn’t need announcing. He moves through the space with ease, stopping here and there to greet people with the kind of familiarity that says this isn’t his first rodeo. He introduces me to a sprawling circle of wide-eyed friends. The crowd is all melanin, laughter, and style. His attention stays fixed on me in a way that makes the room feel quiet.
You’re beautiful, he tells me. Not in that brittle, overcompensating way—the kind of compliment men rehearse when they’re angling for your clothes on the floor. But in a quieter, more unnerving way.
Like he’d just realised it mid-sentence. Like the words startled even him.
At least, that’s how I like to rehearse it in my head.
A man two rows behind me is coughing like he wants applause for it, and the plane is weirdly hot. That strange synthetic air they pump around to mask the fact we’re all inhaling each other’s sweat is barely doing the job.
Internally, a nervous bundle of energy is slowly unravelling as I shift in the middle seat. I want to believe he meant what he said that night. That the quiet awe in his eyes wasn’t just a prelude to what he thought he might get. Lust disguised as reverence. Politeness as foreplay. The kind of careful attention men give before they’ve seen you naked.
Even now, I’m not sure he still looks at me with the same unfiltered wonder.
Maybe it was just the tequila. Maybe he saw me without makeup and changed his mind.
Maybe I talk too much.
Maybe I gave too much away.
The seatbelt sign lights up, serving as a polite reminder that I’m going nowhere.
Normally, I’d sleep. Let the engine white noise rock me into mild oblivion. But right now I’m too busy rewatching memory loops and orbiting between hypothetical conversations.
I hate that I want the obsession. That first-night, seen-across-the-room kind of madness. The man who looks at you once and becomes so enchanted he flies across the continent for dinner. Admitting that feels shameful. Like I’m chasing a high only I remember.
Still — I sit in row 14B, romanticising it anyway.
In the hotel room, I dig out a yellow dress from the depths of my carry-on and drape it over the back of the chair like a warning.
This dress thing. You’ve got it on lock.
That’s what he replied when I posted it on my story nearly three weeks ago in Italy. A compliment I dutifully filed away under things I’m not supposed to read into, but absolutely will.
Fading pink and apricot hues are beginning to litter the sky. The room is on the ground floor, tucked behind a row of trimmed hedges with a little stone patio that opens onto a beautiful private garden. Two weathered chairs sit facing a small patch of lavender and whatever plant it is that always reminds me of my grandmother’s perfume. I’m relieved it’s still warm enough that my legs won’t shiver in protest tonight.
Thoughts start pouring in like static as I walk over to the bathroom mirror—the little round kind that pulls out from the wall and shows every pore with forensic precision. I’m doing that thing all women do: tilting my chin up, mouth slightly open in concentration, praying I don’t blink too hard and smudge mascara onto my eyelid. There’s a growing sense of déjà vu. A creeping apprehension for our upcoming date.
Only now does it really start to dawn on me.
I’m in Austria.
After rerouting a fully prepaid flight to see a man who confirmed our dinner plans yesterday. Past midnight.
I am utterly hopeless.
“You look nice”, he says by way of greeting.
Why does it sound like the kind of compliment you give your mum when she buys a new scarf?
I start to wonder if we’ve already graduated to the part where I become just another oversized prize won at the fairground. The kind you’re desperate to carry home as a kid, and then forget about the moment it’s sitting on your bed.
A trio of old white men perched at the bar swivel their heads in unison like owls sensing prey in the undergrowth. I can feel their eyes trace the outline of my legs with the slow curiosity of someone examining a painting. Suddenly I’m hyper-aware of every click my heels make as we cross the marble lobby floor.
We’re ten minutes late for our dinner reservation.
The restaurant is one of those classy rooftop bars with low glass walls and linen-covered tables lined along the outer edges. Each one is spaced with just enough discretion to preserve the illusion of privacy, yet close enough to enjoy the low hum of laughter and conversation floating between strangers. I watch the quiet road beneath us while we wait for the waiter to return with the menus.
“THE KITCHEN CLOSES IN FIVE MINUTES. You must order everything now,” he says, in that perfectly clipped, emotionless tone that still somehow manages to carry the threat of exile. He hands over the menus with the energy of someone who’s been waiting to hate us. He’s visibly flustered and the atmosphere is so absurd, it becomes funny. I wonder if it’s a moment that we’ll laugh about later. A shared memory or anecdote you tell at dinner parties years down the line when someone asks how you first knew it was something worth remembering.
My date asks for a wine recommendation. Chaos ensues.
“Do you prefer something light? Or medium? Full-bodied? Are you drawn to a more peppery finish or a jammy fruit note? Do you have a preference on year?” The waiter reels off questions like we’re requesting a crash course in viticulture. He then disappears and reappears to begin a verbal dissertation on grape varieties and tasting notes.
We nod with the blank enthusiasm of quiz show contestants, both hoping the other knows the answer. I sip my water to hide my smirk as the back-and-forth between the waiter and my date escalates into a mildly passive-aggressive exchange.
At this point, I’m sure he’s asking deliberately obtuse questions just to wind him up. Eventually, the waiter storms off to retrieve a sample.
“I think he hates you,” I whisper across the table, biting back a laugh.
When he returns, we order the bottle and finish it – naturally.
“This would be a lovely place for a wedding”, he says casually as we stroll through the Royal Gardens the next morning. I nod. Smile. Agree. Attempt to keep my expression as smooth and unreadable as freshly poured concrete.
Because what do you say to that?
Do you want to get married? Have you thought about it? Would you ever see me that way? It’s the kind of probing that is dangerously premature—like googling compatibility signs on your first date while they’re still ordering drinks. So I file the thought away, somewhere between ‘Things I Will Overanalyse Later’ and ‘Internal Monologues That Would Scare Men’.
I catch myself wondering how long it must take to maintain something like this—how much daily effort is required just to keep the illusion of effortless beauty alive. Rows and rows of scarlet blooms, all perfectly symmetrical and undisturbed, are bursting through the soil.
As we walk side by side, I find myself resisting the urge to grab his arm. A hand would be something else entirely. A public declaration. And I’m not sure he’s in the business of declarations — even amongst strangers. So I hesitate. Wondering if perhaps I should let him reach for me.
He doesn’t.
Further along the road, thousands of padlocks cling to the railings of a love lock bridge. An array of public declarations rusting slightly under the morning sun. It's strangely beautiful. And mildly suffocating. Something in the air feels stiff as we wander across the bridge. Like neither of us wants to acknowledge it. Instead, our conversation takes a sharp left turn into 20th century history, prompted by the Holocaust remembrance flags flanking the walkway.
How romantic.
By the time we sit down for breakfast I’m desperate to know what he’s thinking. About me. About us. About whether this feels like something.
Watching him across the table is far too much of a morning distraction. This man is so divine I’m convinced he’s either married or a hologram.
I have to remind myself to turn my attention towards breakfast and away from thoughts of last night. But it’s difficult to focus on carbs when my gaze keeps drifting towards his mouth. I barely register what he’s saying. I’m trying not to replay it. The warmth of the wine. The way the streets blurred as we stumbled back. The part where I don’t remember how the conversation ended –
What arrives at the table is…unexpected. A bright mango puree, cold and glossy, buried beneath a solid disk of white chocolate—like someone tried to turn dessert into a logic puzzle. For some reason, eggs weren’t an option. We break into the chocolate like archaeologists at brunch. It’s cold. Sweet. Confusing. Mostly I just play with mine, tracing small circles in the bowl with my spoon, half-listening, half-watching him.
This morning, his eyes are startlingly blue. Bluer than usual, I’m certain. There’s a clarity to them in this light, like the sun filtered through glacier water. He’s talking about work—his newest ideas, the people he’s building things with, the risks. I can’t entirely follow the jargon but it doesn’t matter. I’m hooked on the way he speaks. The urgency, the conviction. There’s something deeply attractive about a person who wakes up with something to care about. Someone who wants to create. Build. Share.
I nod, listening, soaking in how alive it all feels. Because even if the breakfast is bizarre, this moment is exactly how I want to start the day.
I add the image to my imagination gallery.
This time I sit in the aisle seat on the plane towards London, mentally recounting the past 24 hours.
I’m thinking about our parting conversation. The mention of a trip to Paris next week.
“Coming?” he said, half smiling.
I can’t tell if it’s a genuine invitation.
Perhaps I’ll find out – at midnight the night before.
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Midnight the night before is so real! 😂
Really enjoyed this! Nicely written and very much in the spirit of the BGG. Excited to listen to the next chapter!