His first email was short. His fifth was long, and it contained the question that mattered.
For four weeks a gentleman wrote to me, withdrew and asked again. He has allowed me to tell this, explicitly including here in the diary. Without his consent this entry wouldn't exist, and I have left out anything that could make him recognisable.
At first he asked about the arrangements: how long, where, what he should bring. I read that as camouflage, because those are the questions you ask while you can't bring yourself to ask the real one. Gradually they became more personal. Whether the lady read his words herself or only I did. Whether she could truly look forward to an evening or simply had to say so. Whether she was allowed to decline if he wasn't to her taste.
I answered each of them with yes, because it is true. With us, the lady has a say.
Then came the request that made me read his email twice. I should send the lady a photo of him, and she should tell me honestly whether she liked him. Honestly, he wrote, and the word appeared twice. Not politely.
I didn't take it for vanity. I know what lies behind such a question, because I have heard it before, in other words, from other men. Whoever asks this doesn't want affection that is ordered and delivered. He doesn't want someone to smile at him because it is part of the job. He wants to know whether someone will look at him and decide for herself. Genuine appreciation, even if it is only for a single evening. A harmony that isn't acted.
It is an unusually honest wish, and it convinced me more than any polished line in an enquiry ever could.
So I told him how I handle it. The photo goes to her alone, only with his consent, and she doesn't have to be polite. Had her answer been no, I would have told him, kindly but without detours. She looked at the picture in her own time and answered me honestly. What she said I keep to myself. Two days later his booking arrived, with date, time, phone number and the exact address including the floor.
What happened that evening stays between him and the lady. It isn't my story, and I wasn't there. The day after, he called me. He said he had spent four weeks asking the wrong questions. The real one had never been How does this work? but Can someone like me once they see me?
I tell this because on some evenings someone sits in front of an empty email window and doesn't send exactly that question. Do ask. Even the ones that feel embarrassing. I don't count emails.
Discreetly yours, Lena