Some Assembly Required

It would have made more sense to start at the beginning, he knew, but the beginning had seemed too thick with other people, and he feared merging into the crowd. They hadn’t known each other long enough, she might pick up a candle, or table runner, and present them to the wrong blue-jeans white-t-shirt frame, and never even notice. They might go home together, with the candle, and the table runner, and lay out knives and forks and steak and potatoes, and in the dimness of the candle light she might wonder that she hadn’t noticed how handsome he was before, and years later they might argue about where they first met, and she might say “it was at that party, in the hotel” and he might say “no, it was at Ikea, I remember” and she would never be convinced she was wrong. No, he thought, safer to head for the middle, where the crowds had spread out and the lighting was brighter and he might be more easily seen. Besides, he could impress her, maybe, with the breezy way he could navigate the shortcuts.

Except, now that they were here, amongst the beds and mattresses and duvet covers of assorted hues, he felt awkward, presumptuous. It would have been better, after all, to enter the mock bedrooms via dining suites and sofas.

“I like this one.” She stroked the plastic cover on a green palm leaf printed fabric folded into a neat cuboid.

“It’s… jungly.” Jungly. Better, he supposed, that “a bit much” or “a little chaotic.” Jungly. Jesus, she probably thought he had the vocabulary of a toddler. Should they go back? He knew they had bypassed desks and office chairs, with their polite gimmicks and non-confronting lines. He turned to look for her, but she had wandered on, ranging away from him and the two-drawer bedside table he imagined would work very well in his bedroom at home.

“Hey, wait for me!” he called, but she was making a beeline for a gold tiled wall, setting off a claw foot bath IN a mock bedroom in shades of black and amber. And then she was climbing into the bath, in her jeans and sweatshirt, that gorgeous hair swooping over her shoulder as she turned and called to him.

“Over here! Come and take a picture of me!” His stomach released something he hadn’t known he was holding and he felt warmth flood outwards into his momentarily frozen limbs.

She lay down, lifted her hair over the back of the tub and let it dangle, catching the yellows of the lighting in the ceiling scaffold. He took out his phone and she smiled at him, the tilt of her head inviting him to dip and kiss her on the lips. He took the photo, turned the phone, squatted beside the bath and showed it too her.

“I’d love a bedroom like this” she said. “So decadent, don’t you think?”

“Not much storage though” he answered, casting about for redeeming features. “I like the headboard.”

“You’re funny.” And she tapped his nose with her finger. He wondered if that was supposed to feel nice.

He extended his hand, ever the gentleman, and she took it, stepping out of the bath like a princess from a carriage. She didn’t let go as they made their way into kitchens, and when she did, it was to spread both arms across a faux marble worktop, adopting a pose of easy command, a play of a woman at home in her kingdom.

“Children! Come and wash your hands for dinner!” She turned to face him again. “This is exactly the kitchen I would have in my house. Except I’d change these handles.” He was relieved. The handles were awful. “Can we go to the café now?”

They made their way through children’s toys, she picking up stuffed animals and exclaiming at the cuteness of small furniture, he wondering whether he did, or did not, want stuffed animals and small furniture in his life. In the queue, with their plastic trays at the ready, he recommended the meatballs, and she said she was just going to get chips, and his smile subsided just a little bit, because meatballs had been the whole point, after she told him that she had never had them, and he told her they were a cultural phenomenon and she laughed and told him, kept telling him, “you are so funny.”

The conversation should have been stilted, but there was much to talk about, still. His job, her job, his family, her family, how they celebrated at Christmas, how they liked to holiday, there was material for lunch and dinner and beyond, but afterwards, when their plates were clean, and she wondered aloud where all the candles and cushions and genius storage was, he told her that he knew a shortcut and led her through an acre of shelved flat packs, cardboarded closets and easy chairs and shoe storage, and out past the checkouts and the frozen Swedish fish and into the brightness of day.

“I didn’t get a single tea light!” she exclaimed, mock horror parting those beautiful lips.

“Sorry, I must have taken us straight to the end” he said, and proffered his hand, dropped it when it felt too much like they were strangers, and opened his arms for a hug that he kept brief and efficient.