A few weeks back, Tom appeared on my Tinder. Seeing his picture was like how I imagine it would feel passing your rapist in the street. For a moment, I stared. Then, with the care of a lab technician handling corrosive acid, I adjusted the app settings and the screen refreshed.
By the second encounter, something in me had hardened – or softened – and I tried to convince myself he was redeemable, dateable even. Perky came to the rescue.
‘He sounded like a douche to put it nicely!’ she says.
Beatrice echoes the sentiment. Tom, we agree, is a straightforward case.
‘But,’ I say, ‘Jack didn’t mess me around like that.’
Beatrice doesn’t say anything.
‘And, well, I’m desperate! And there’s just… nothing going on!’
She starts clearing the plates. We both know that swiping right on the man who broke your heart is plain daft.
A week later, I learn I’ve got my dream internship. That evening, Viable Prospect crops up again. I do what I always do – change my settings and a new set of potential matches swims into view. But I know, as I head for bed, that VP’s not what I want. I could handle the Monday night dates when I had a 9 to 5. I could even handle the sleepless nights – my permanently frenzied state, like a cat on hot coals.
I remove my contact lenses, cleaning them in the palm of my hand. I don’t want the drama, the not knowing, the games. For the first time, I can see clearly.