I spent my teens flirting. I’d flutter my eyelashes, play with my hair, wink and smile coquettishly at boys.
It was natural and innocent. It was also huge fun; it’s just what we girls did.
This morning I was out for a walk. On the way I stopped to pick up a coffee and chatted to the guy waiting in the line next to me.
‘Long line hey, worth the wait?’
‘You’re such a flirt,’ said my girlfriend. ‘Stop it.’
Really? I was seriously just asking about the queue.
Midway through our walk we drank from the water fountain then struggled to switch the tap off.
A man happened to wander by.
‘Oh won’t you help us,’ I said. ‘This damn thing…’
‘We can figure it out, don’t worry,’ said the same girlfriend, giving me the evil eye.
I shrugged helplessly and he continued on his way. So did we, leaving a dripping tap behind us.
And five minutes later we were walking through the suburbs and there was a man on a wall, pretty high up, doing maintenance.
‘We’ve got your back if you fall,’ I shouted.
‘Oh for fucks sake,’ yelled my girlfriend. ‘Stop flirting, it’s driving me mad.’
He looked down at us, smiled, lost his balance and fell.
I tended to his injuries. I put my hand on his thigh while cleaning the blood off his knee and put my fingers on his lips, whispering that everything would be okay.
The only thing missing was a nurse’s uniform. A tight one.
My girlfriend watched me, shaking her head.
‘You may wanna help me with the dying,’ I suggested.
She insisted we carry on with our walk.
‘He’s fine, a few scrapes, come on.’
We walked away, leaving him bleeding on the sidewalk. But not before he handed me his number, crumpled, on a blood-stained piece of paper.
Call me, it said.
What a flirt.