We carried on talking afterward. I’ve heard it’s all arse over tit with girls—euphemistically speaking, unless you get lucky and get a real goer—and they expect you to do the talking first, fucking second. Get the important stuff out of the way first; that’s what I always say.
I bought him a beer, and he did the looking-through-his-hair thing and asked if I wanted to see him again.
I felt a bit bad about having to let him down. “Sorry, mate, I’m off to the arse-end of the world in three days. Got to get to base, get packed up.”
“Afghanistan? On duty?”
I nodded. “Six months tour.”
“Give me your phone,” he said, holding out his hand.
“What?”
“Give me your phone. I’ll put my number in, and you can call me when you get back.”