Um, I know this is a bit forward but… Can I have your number?” The question shimmers awkwardly in the air for a moment. It feels like an eternity. If it had a colour, it would be the hot pink of the embarrassed blush creeping up my cheeks. If it had a sound, it would be the slow, toe-curling “parrrrrrrpppp” of a fart reverberating around a silent room.
When was the last time I asked for a stranger’s number? Ten years ago? More? Having read at a formative age the toxic dating manual The Rules and religiously accepted its mantra that women must forever be the pursued and never the pursuers, I don’t think I’ve ever asked a man for his digits. But this isn’t a man I’m asking, nor any kind of prospective romantic partner. It is, instead, a nice woman called Rachel who I’ve earmarked as potential friend material after a 15-minute – slightly tipsy – conversation in a dim-lit bar.
