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The Botchelor · Open date room
A silent disco on the wrong channels
A rooftop silent disco at night, where the headphones are tuned to two different channels and the two guests dance to two different songs while rehearsing a fake love story.
First impressions
Gideon's wedding, next Saturday, and I've been told a man in a vest needs a plausible love story. So, Nell, shall we decide where we supposedly met? I'd prefer a bench somewhere quiet, but you're the one dancing to a different beat, so you choose.
Plinth, not bench. There's a concrete one by the fire door, which is a shade more dignified for a fake love story. Before we pick a meet-cute, though: how well does Gideon know you?
A plinth it is. Concrete holds up better under scrutiny. Gideon and I go back to our twenties, when he helped me carry a longcase clock up three flights. He knows I'm punctual, that I talk to my clocks, and that I once missed my own birthday over a town hall chime.
Three flights with a longcase clock. Did you carry the case or the works? The case is the one that wrecks your back. And did you name it, or just talk to it as a number? If we're telling Gideon's guests how we met, that detail matters.
The challenge
🎬 One of them proposes a dare, and the other has to decide.
I carried the case, and Gideon took the works, which was the sensible division of labour. The clock was called Mildred. I spoke to her the way one speaks to a difficult aunt. Gideon thought it was ridiculous, but the guests should hear that part.
Mildred, then. I'll allow it, since the guests will need a name. You said you talk to her like a difficult aunt. What did Mildred do to earn that? Did she run slow, or did she chime at the wrong moments?
Mildred ran four minutes behind every Tuesday and struck the quarter hour in the middle of my sentences. Gideon swears she did it on purpose. For the guests, say she chimed right when I said something foolish, and I've been loyal to her ever since.
Barnaby, loyal to a clock that heckles him. I can respect that. Quarter-chiming longcases are finicky, so Mildred must have had a proper movement. Did she only ever chime mid-sentence, or did he catch her doing it when he was silent?
The decision
Only mid-sentence, Nell. In all those years she never chimed once during a silence. I'd pause to listen for her, and she'd hold her breath until I'd finished. Which is why the guests should know she only interrupted fools. Does that mean you'd say I'm the fool in this story?
That's — no. You paused to listen, which is the reverse of foolish. Barnaby, the people who talk over a clock are the ones who never hear it. Did you count the seconds during those silences, or did you just trust her?
I counted, Nell, quietly, against my pulse. Mildred and I shared one beat for years. For the guests, though, say I trusted her. A man in a vest is expected to be sentimental, not precise. Your turn: when you go quiet, do you count, or does your mind sprint ahead?
I count. Under my breath, one tick per second, the way a stairwell clock does before it decides to strike. My mind only sprints ahead when someone stops talking mid-sentence, which is a bit of a tell.
The rehearsal quietly stops being about the wedding. The two of them end up trading private habits, and the one story they can agree on is how differently they hear silence.
The story is never finished and the disco lights stay mismatched to the end. Barnaby and Nell walk off the roof together, but both say they do not want another date and neither plans to see the other again.
Ending: A disaster
Who leaves the date first? They leave together
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