The Sound of Silence

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CC Image courtesy of H.J.Righolt on Flickr‘How was your wedding? Not your wedding…’

I laugh. ‘No. Yeah it was fine.’

I try to think of something funny or interesting that happened, besides slicing my legs open with a men’s razor in my haste to get ready, calling for a very attractive patchwork of plasters.

‘How was the party?’ I wind up.

 

I’d missed Tristan‘s house party for the wedding – a couple I knew from university. For the first two years of our degree he had a long-term girlfriend and she we pined. For the third year, they dated and, on graduating, moved in together. She looked radiant with happiness standing opposite him at the altar.

 

‘It was good,’ Tristan says. I get the feeling he’s also struggling for material.

There’s a pause as we apply ourselves to our lunch.

‘So did you meet anyone?’ he says.

I frown. ‘You mean…?’

‘Did you meet the love of your life?’

I laugh. ‘Well I only had about four men to choose from! There was one guy – he had his own mobile home – but he wasn’t the most interesting company. Actually the bride messaged me today saying ‘I hear there was some excitement’ and offering to help, which was very sweet given she’s on honeymoon. But anyway, she misread the situation…’

So much for confining myself to the funny or interesting.

What the bride had actually said was ‘I hear there might be something for the blog’, but Tristan doesn’t need to know this. He’s not listening anyway; at ‘mobile home’ he’d started to laugh.

‘Was he wearing a wife-beater?’ he says. ‘And did he have long sideburns?’

‘No,’ I say, also laughing. ‘He was quite good-looking, but that’s pretty much all he had going for him.’

I could go on, tell him how the groom had come over to us and said with a meaningful look in Mobile Home’s direction, ‘I don’t think Anna needs to worry about accommodation tonight.’

How, faced with the story of my taxi crisis, Mobile Home had offered me a cup of tea in his van (he preferred to call it ‘The Van’).

How I declined in favour of a good night’s sleep, went home to my own mobile home and cried for I don’t know what.

There’s another pause.

‘Tell me more about the party,’ I say.

CC Image courtesy of Nic Taylor Photography on Flickr

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Wedding Night

My Cup of Tea

La Dolce Vita

Things I’ve Said To Tristan



Out Of The Blue

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‘What do you make of Tinder?’ CC Image courtesy of ant217 on Flickr

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.

*

Be-ep. 

I shut the front door behind me.

Be-ep.

I find my phone in my bag, and bring it to life.

You have a new Tinder message from Viable Prospect.

Huh?

‘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.

CC Image courtesy of ToastyKen on Flickr



She & Him

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CC Image courtesy of mRio on Flickr

It went like this.

Me: Witty question, though I say so myself.

Him: One-word response.

Me: Witty question.

Him: Two-word response.

Must be love.

Me: Question.

Him: Question…

Finally, a sign of life.

… though not a very encouraging one.

Me (fed-up): Response.

Silence.

Feelings of sadness, self-loathing… depression.  Blaming of Beatrice, first in my head, then out loud, that is, via online chat.

The following evening, Beatrice and I go to a housewarming.  We last a couple of hours.

‘So, anyone?’ I say, en route to the station.

‘No.  You?’

‘No.’

Besides a sweet girl who works in films and who I would later go to considerable lengths to track down the name of – the kind of lengths people in films go to to track down the love of their life, but since I didn’t meet the love of my life

I get in, drop my stuff on the table in the sitting room, and go through to the kitchen to make a drink.

Mug in hand, I flop down on the sofa.  My phone is blinking.  I swipe the screen and there it is, the distinctive orange logo.  And the words,

You have a new Tinder message from Viable Prospect.

That’s not exactly what it says.

I stare lovingly at the screen, open and close the window a few times, revisit his Facebook profile.  Birds are singing by the time I do finally hit the hay.

CC Image courtesy of mallix on Flickr