Love can be murder. So if that’s true, then dating must be a sign of premeditation.

I was definitely in a state of ‘premeditation’ that warm Australian January evening, as we left the cinema. We ambled along side one another, jostled within the crowd, our arms occasionally touching, sending teasing shocks of taboo delight, like waves, across my skin. To the world outside ours, we appeared to be just two guys in a throng of movie-goers exiting a theatre and making their way to the foyer. At this point, murder was not on my mind - not then anyway.

I was actually experiencing a severe case of First Date Anxiety, so much so that if you were to ask me what film we saw that night, I’d reply thus: “Um… the one with that guy in it… y’know, the guy with the hair… and the eyes…? He’s the one that always does that thing in films, and he’s like… well, y’know who I mean...”

Now that I think back on it, it was less like ‘anxiety’ and more like ‘abject terror’. Regardless, I wore it well, hidden beneath a close fitting pale blue Bonds T-shirt that accentuated my lean, boyish body and denim jeans that hugged and flattered my butt. I could only hope the Dolce & Gabbana cologne I’d immersed myself in, minutes before leaving my apartment, hid the stench of fear and anticipation adequately.

I stole a glance to my right. He walked beside me; at 6 foot 4 inches tall, he was both dark and unreasonably handsome. I noted the calm expression on his face and felt a twinge of annoyance: why couldn’t he be as terrified as I was? Afterall, we had crossed a significant line together – things would never be the same for us ever again.

Perhaps sensing my gaze, or possibly the chaotic thoughts coursing through my brain, he turned his face to me and smiled. The curve of his lips and the light and warmth in his eyes set my rib cage to strangling my heart, while at the same instant a whoop of excitement emanated from the base of my loins, echoing up through the rest of my body on a hormone driven Mexican wave, riding on the chant: ’You are so going to get laid tonight! And about bloody time!’

Luckily, no one else appeared to hear my raging loins, though I was concerned that it wouldn’t be long before my loins ‘stood up’ and started spurting their declarations in such a manner as to be impossible to ignore - not a good thing on a first date.

We’d arrived at the top of the wide staircase of the mezzanine-style foyer of the Village Cinema, located within the Jam Factory, a shopping centre situated on Chapel Street in the image conscious suburb of South Yarra.

Without speaking, we lingered at the top of the impressive staircase. While it was close to 9.30pm, the centre remained busy, with people clad in casual summer attire milling around, seeking refuge from the heat within its air-conditioned confines. Christmas decorations glittered and sparkled throughout the centre, as it was only the first week of the New Year.

From that vantage point, looking down at and across the ground level, Drew Ducharme took in the clusters of people wandering about the ticket box, the stores and cafes located beneath us, while I took in him and tried to come to terms with what we were doing.

You see, I was not just on a First Date, but on a First Date with one of my closest friends. More than that, I had been in love with Drew Ducharme for some years.

As anyone will tell you, unrequited love sucks. But throw in ‘friendship’ and that makes it all the more complicated and frustrating. But you can get used to it; I did. I reached a point where it hardly seemed to matter anymore. But that changed when Drew asked me out on The Date. I guess everything changed.

I couldn’t stop myself from wondering: ’What happens now? Do we go back to my place? To his place? Will he think I’m a slut? Or may be I should suggest we go for a drink or something…? Will we kiss? Does he want to kiss me? Is he sorry he suggested this whole date-thing? What the Hell is he thinking right now…?’

“Puck, you want to grab a coffee…?” Drew said, turning to look at me.

“Huh?” I replied stupidly, my mind still skipping gaily down a path of possibilities while singing ’We’re Off to See the Wizard…’ and wearing ruby red Skechers.

Drew smiled. “You want a coffee or something?”

In the realm of my mind – which is quite a strange place, as you will learn in time - I gave him a feigned coquettish look before I raised my eyebrows at him suggestively, responding with a husky: ’I’ll take a big ol’ slice of ‘Or Something’, seeing as you’re offering, thanks very much!’

Well, it sounded good in my head at least.

But I got my cool back, shrugged and gave a crooked, small smile. “Yeah, ok, great,” I responded quickly – too quickly? – and added: “Um… So what did you think of the movie?” I asked as we started down the staircase.

As Drew replied, my right hand slipped into the pocket of my jeans in an instinctive action, fishing out the ubiquitous accessory of the 21st Century – the mobile phone. And while I listened to Drew’s soft, deep voice (though hardly absorbing the words themselves) I switched it on and tapped in the PIN.

“… And the soundtrack was excellent,” Drew was saying as we reached the bottom of the wide marble staircase. There was a café situated at the bottom of the stairs, directly opposite the cinema’s ticket box. It was the perfect location for ensnaring customers going to and from the movies. Naturally, we made our way towards it.

Just before we reached the café, however, my phone bleated, alerting me to a message. Once again I took it from my pocket and then it beeped a second and then finally a third time.

’That has to be Nicky,’ I thought to myself, with a wry smile. ’No doubt he wants all the gory details on what’s going on…’

Drew gave me a slightly bemused look. “Wow… aren’t you the popular boy?”

“Hardly,” I replied, grinning while navigating the menu system. I found that there were two sms and a voicemail notification advising of three messages.

I read the text messages first – they were indeed from Nicky: ’has he stuck his tongue down ur throat yet?’, followed by another sent about an hour later which read: ’if u fuck send me pics bitch!’

I chuckled quietly, then dialed the number to retrieve my voicemail. Drew took the opportunity to turn on his own phone while we negotiated the cafes’ tables and sat at a table for two.

As with most voicemail services, a rather generic, slightly faltering female voice stated, in a manner suggesting that she was hooked up to an iron lung: “You-have-three-new-messages. Message-received-today-at-7:40pm…”

“Hey… um… it’s Alexander,” stated the voice. There was a pause as though the caller was attempting to remember where he was and what he was doing.

“Um… Puck… call when you get this. Um… yeah… it’s important. Ah, er... ok... bye,” he concluded, and I frowned, somewhat surprised by the tone of his voice, though not so much by the awkward attitude displayed. But before I could ponder the matter too deeply, the second message commenced.

“Hi hun,” Tish said, and despite the informal opening, I knew Tish well enough to grasp the sense that something was wrong, even in just those first two words. "Hope the date is going well," she offered. "Just need you to give me a call back as soon as you get this, all right?" Tish said. “Really need to talk to you, Puck, ok?” A brief pause. “OK – well, chat soon hun.”

I looked across the table at Drew. He was talking to the cute young male waiter who had appeared at our table. Drew ordered a Chamomile tea, then looked at me to state my order. I asked for a Coke. The waiter nodded, smiled a little too long at Drew than I would’ve preferred, before he sauntered off, swaying his hips in a noticeable fashion. But it seemed that I was the only one who noticed, for Drew was sitting across from me patiently, a small smile on his face as our eyes met.

I grinned back, then bowed my head slightly and avoided his gaze, afraid he’d see how shit scared I truly felt. The phone still to my ear, the third message played out.

“Hiya Puck, how are you babe?” It was Desi. “Guess that Tish has probably already tried to call you…. Um, yeah, well, call one of us, ok? We’ll have our phones on us… hmmm, unless they make us turn them off…” She suddenly sounded uncertain. “Look, whatever – just call when you get this message. Bye babe… oh, wait! Hope things went excellently with Drew! Love ya’!”

Drew was busy with his own phone. He was tapping out a sms to someone, his focus on the screen. I watched his big hands and surprisingly nimble fingers manipulate the keypad while I pondered the odd messages from my friends.

“Sorry Drew,” I said, “but I’ve got to make a call,” I explained.

“It’s ok, Puck,” he replied casually. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, and kept typing.

I nodded while bringing up Tish’s number from the phone’s address book. The phone rang only once before she answered.

“Hi,” I began. “Got your message… so what’s up?” I asked her. And that was when Tish told me about Michael.

If you’re at all familiar with Celtic folklore or even Shakespeare’s ’A Midsummer Night’s Dream’, then you probably won’t be too surprised to learn that almost everyone calls me Puck.

Puck, or Robin Goodfellow as he’s also known, appears in stories and tales passed down over hundreds of years as something of a mischievous imp or sprite. And although I’m not sure I’d describe myself in those terms, few would dispute that I have a singular skill for sniffing out trouble.

I blame my parents, of course. Not only for the name but also for a myriad of neuroses. But we won’t explore the latter just now; besides which, I don’t dare take the risk of putting my therapist out of work.

My mother was a high school teacher of English Literature. A formal and frequently grim woman, she somehow ended up wedded (briefly) to my father, a not-so reformed hippie, and it was his idea to name me Robin.

As a devotee of classical literature, my mother was quite taken by the suggestion. However, when it became clear that my father was intent on calling me ‘Puck’ rather than Robin, I suspect Mum regretted the choice. In fact, Mum is the only person I can think of who calls me Robin, and if anyone calls me Puck in her presence, her teeth grind and flash like flint against stone.

The date with Drew Ducharme was over. I sat quietly in his car, a black BMW, as he drove. The CD player was on and while I heard the music, it didn’t register. All I could think about as we drove towards the Alfred Hospital on Commercial Road, in Prahran, was of Michael.

The question: ’Why?’

Drew looked over at me a couple of times, his face showing concern. But like me, he seemed unable to find the words.

When I’d got off the phone from Tish I’d sat there, opposite Drew, dazed. A minute or two passed. And then I heard Drew’s voice and I looked at him and said: “I have to go. I have to go now. Sorry. Sorry Drew… “

I rose from the chair, looking around the cafe, the shopping centre, feeling as though the world had suddenly lost its luster and grown thin and worn. It was as if I could almost see through our reality and stare into something larger and hidden beneath it; to something I did not wish to see.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Drew had asked. And so I told him what Tish had just told me.

And now we were approaching the hospital. I could only pray that we weren’t too late.

Drew turned left off of Commercial Road and up the horseshoe shaped driveway outside of the emergency entrance. The car pulled up near the main doors and idled. Drew was looking at me.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you…?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yeah… yeah, it’s fine. Tish and Desi are here. And Alexander,” I added thoughtfully. “I’ll be fine… but thanks…”

His brow remained furrowed with worry. “I just don’t feel right about leaving you like this…”

“Honestly, Drew, it’s fine – really,” I assured him. “Look, I’d better go in… you can’t block this driveway,” I told him.

“Yeah, ok, I suppose you’re right,” he replied unhappily. But he made no move to shift the car into gear, and I made no move to unfasten the seat belt.

“Puck?” he said.

I looked at him again. He leant forward quickly and kissed me on the lips. It was brief but real and – if but for a moment – penetrated the needle-like sting of shock that shrouded me.

“I’m here if you need me,” he told me, his face mere inches away. My eyes danced from his lips to his large violet coloured eyes that were bright and intense, and yet oh so soft at the same time

I nodded dumbly, unsure if the shock I felt was from the news Tish had imparted, or from Drew’s kiss: ’Our first kiss… our first kiss as something other than friends or mates…’, I realised. And then a wave of shame swept over me and I looked into the hospital’s emergency room waiting area – a veritable glass box on the ground floor at the front of the building– and thought of Michael.

’Our first kiss; our first real kiss! …And Michael is dying…’

“I gotta’ go,” I said suddenly and opened the car door and climbed out quickly, uttering a perfunctory ‘thank you’ for the lift, as I hurried up to the main doors without looking back.

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