Baby's got Grey Eyes

An almost compulsory part of the newly single lifestyle is that, foolish as it may seem (and it does seem foolish, I am aware) a rebound fling in well in order. It doesn't really matter who it is, as long they don't give you crabs and you don't get too attached. The second criteria is more important than the first.

And so, with this hovering somewhere in the back of mind, somewhere between worrying about my thesis and my housemates, I bike the long and winding road to the University of Melbourne. It's windy and rainy but kind of beautiful, especially when my scarf unravels just the right amount and trails behind me like some kind of faux-Burberry flag. People are walking their dogs and look happy, others are smoking cigarettes and look annoyed. The dogs themselves don't really have expressions, they just sniff at things.

My university office, perched on the sixth floor of the crumbling arts building, is empty. I share it with two other PhD students, neither of whom has been in for at least a week. One studies travel writing; the other, Paradise Lost. Ironically, the travel writing student is absent because he is having a difficult month and the Paradise Lost student is absent due to travelling. On one of the bookshelves stands a collection of impressive looking gin bottles. All of them are empty; I have checked many times. Above my desk, I have blue tacked black and white pictures of my favourite playwrights; Chekov, O'Neil, Albee. I have not read as many of their plays as I should, but I like to claim that they inspire me. Also, they cover up the cracks in the paint.

The morning takes a jagged turn when I realise that I am supposed to be attending an Induction Meeting for first time tutors; something which I have written and underlined in my diary but clearly forgot to check the night before. I repack all my worldly possessions and swear a little bit and then scuttle run to the big, flash building off campus with a revolving door where the induction in question takes place. I arrive in one of the rooms puffed and slightly sweaty, interrupting a group of earnest looking students with name tags stuck on each of them. As I am late, I don't get a name tag. Instead, I sit quietly and try to appear interested in what the (clearly impressive) mature student with glasses and a Houndstooth blouse is telling the students about the importance of a clear lesson plan.

Two seats down from is a guy who looks as bored as I feel. He taps his pen on the table and rolls his neck. He has tight black jeans, large biceps and incredible grey eyes. He sports a relatively thick (although carefully maintained) beard and a nose piercing; an extremely rare combination even amongst the most indie of independent scensters. Needless to say, I was intrigued.

The induction continued. We split into groups and discussed the what makes a good tutorial and a bad tutorial. There was a lot of fierce nodding and writing of notes and I attempted a series of subtle glances at the grey eyed boy at the other end of the table. Every now and then I felt like he was glancing back towards me, but its ever so hard to tell whats what this early in the piece. But I think that's half the fun.

Trying to spot a homosexual is much like trying to spot a witch. In the Roald Dahl book of the same name, we are told that there are several signs which mean that a woman might be a witch; gloves, large nostrils, flat shoes.. but even with all these signs, it is nearly impossible to tell. The grey eyed boy had a nose piercing; a generous tick on the list of potential gay behaviours. He sat with one leg crossed tightly over the other, another tick. But there are plenty of handsome men in the world with nose studs who are as straight as they come, especially in the Arts faculty of an urban University campus. And then there was the beard.

We broke for morning tea and the Grey Eyed Boy and I got to talking. I asked him what he studied, he asked me what I studied. I complimented his nose stud. He smiled and thanked me, touching it slightly self conscious. We laughed about the mature student with the Houndstooth blouse and praised the complimentary danishes. At lunch time, we ate sandwiches and talked about David Lynch. The conversation flowed deliciously and by the time he slung his leather strap bag around his shoulder (another tick) and strolled to work, I had his number. We agreed to hang out soon. After a few semi-flirtatious texts, he suggested the evening ahead. People move fast when there is potential sex involved. And there it was; a date with a stud with a nose stud.

And so I biked over to the address located on google maps at about 10pm; excited, aftershaved and giddy as a school boy. I dragged my bike awkwardly up three flights of stairs and knocked. The apartment was small, ugly and smelt strongly of bleach. There was a hideous, slightly lopsided, abstract painting on one of the walls and nothing else. The Grey Eyed Boy sat opposite each other in the makeshift lounge and tried to converse. After ten minutes, we more or less gave up. He told me how he hated Seinfeld, how he abhorred smokers and how he spent the majority of his spare time playing video games. I asked him what he was currently reading and he showed me some horrifying fantasy novel, third in a series of eight and around 900 pages in length. Each new fact screamed 'Deal Breaker!' in my ear and as they stacked up, they seemed to fall over upon each other like a row of dominoes.

It became very awkward. It was late. We had run out of conversation. I finished my glass of wine and he did not offer to get me another. That's the problem with the rebound fling; it's never as good as it needs to be. The fun is in the flirting, and then things always seem to go downhill. Perhaps its because I move too fast. I never really learn.

And so I left. I dragged my bicycle down the three flights of steps and he went back to his fantasy novel. I was disappointed in the Grey Eyed Boy and even more disappointed in myself. It was late but I was hungry and I picked up a lamb souvlaki and biked home and ate it in bed watching The West Wing. The souvlaki was very greasy, the show was dry. I drank a pot of tea from a pumpkin shaped teapot and licked the meat juice off my fingers. And somehow, for a brief moment in my tiny, drafty bedroom in the middle of Melbourne at one in the morning, everything seemed at peace.

The next morning as I deleted all the texts from the day before, I suddenly remembered how colour blind I am. In reality, his eyes probably weren't even grey.