She shot me a smile that was simultaneously caring and seductive. It was only our third date but I had a good feeling about this girl from the moment I’d met her, a feeling that was at odds with my growing distain for the English, specifically the English abroad. Fiona was resoundingly English. I thought she looked like Kate Winslet, but blonder, and svelter. She’d grown up in a leafy part of Berkshire, in a village with a cricket green and a village hall and a pub with ivy growing wild up the walls. Fiona was very posh, and in a good-natured sort of way she made fun of my accent. She said I spoke like a chimney sweep. We shared a bottle of wine on our first date and kissed some. The second date we had cocktails and dinner and she stayed over at my place in Chinatown. We did it five times and she fell asleep on my chest. I imagined that she might put my parents on edge if I took her home to meet them. I’d warn my mother, who would likely say something like, “She’ll have to take us as she finds us.”
