‘What do you make of Tinder?’
I take a sip of mulled wine. ‘Hmm not a fan.’
‘Oh – why?’
Tinder Guy, Simon, Viable Prospect, and Daniel. Especially Daniel: that made no sense. But because I don’t know how to articulate this within the accepted time frame of a drinks party conversation, I say:
‘I think the emphasis on location means it lends itself more to casual hook-ups, and if that’s what you’re looking for then fine, but I’m not….’
No, I’m looking to meet the love of my life on an app, which is much more realistic.
We’re interrupted. A short while later I head home.
I shut the front door behind me.
I find my phone in my bag, and bring it to life.
You have a new Tinder message from Viable Prospect.
‘How’s your Christmas prep going?’
I scroll up. Two months have passed since my last message. He must be either very bored or very drunk. I consider not replying.
Tapping on his profile picture brings up the strangely familiar set of photos. Clear blue eyes, and the bright white smile of someone who always brushed their teeth when they were younger – or just has good genes. He’s cute, no two ways about it. I consider making some kind of witty reference to his poor response time in my reply, if I reply.
The next day, I reply as if no time has passed.
‘I give him a week – two because it’s holiday season – to suggest meeting in person,’ I tell Beatrice that evening. ‘After that, I give up on him.’
Him, Tinder, the lot. Until next year.