There are some people whose messages give you that feeling. Butterflies. Their name appears on the screen and you don’t open it right away. Instead you use the fact it’s there, waiting for you, as leverage, to make you do some chore you’ve been putting off. As you unload the dishwasher, or make lunch for the following day, you try not to think about it. The message will disappoint; it always does.
It’s inevitable that when I go back on Tinder, Viable Prospect crosses my mind. Imagine, I think to myself of an evening, if he got back in touch. I would… ignore it. Yes, that’s what I’d do. It’s only a fleeting thought, I mean, why would he contact me? How would he even know I was back on it? Unless he was browsing his chat history and saw I’d recently been ‘active’ (shudder). But people don’t do that. I dismiss the thought.
I last all of ten minutes – ten minutes, for Christ’s sake! – before writing back.
Each time I hear from the guy I think maybe, just maybe, he’ll ask me out. He doesn’t. Not for a moment do I seriously believe I won’t reply. That’s not true. In the seconds immediately after reading each message, feeling that familiar wave of disappointment, I swear off the whole thing. Even as I type the words, I’m hating him, hating myself for my complete lack of self-discipline. How many other women are caught in his web? To be fair, most are probably asleep. It’s gone 1am and I’ve just been told I’m weird/attractive. Which is enough to make me smile into my pillow.
Charming, blue-eyed, bright-smiled Viable Prospect thinks I’m weird/attractive.
I might be both, or neither, but I’m definitely a fool.