The Million Dollar Question

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CC Image courtesy of jaumescar on FlickrNovember 2015

‘Fuckery.’

That’s Lucy‘s analysis of his behaviour, delivered after three cocktails. I sit there, grinning, probably because I’ve also had three cocktails.

Adrien, presented with the same facts, brands Viable Prospect ‘indecisive’ and ‘twatty’.

‘You have two choices,’ he says. ‘You can reply, saying, ‘Sup m8 let’s go for drink/shag’.’

Hmm.

‘Or delete his number, unfriend him and move on.’

Instead I take to haunting his profile. I attend three events in as many months just because Facebook says he’s ‘Attending’. For the third of these I shell out actual money. It’s a lecture on Henry James. I didn’t attend lectures at uni when they were free. For this one I both buy a ticket and do preparatory reading.

The Portrait of a Lady – aside from being brilliant – is the story of a young American woman who comes to Europe and falls for the wrong man. I don’t need to point out the irony.

‘I might just suggest meeting up,’ I say to Beatrice, after another no-show.

She agrees it would be better than what I’m doing.

‘But,’ she goes on, ‘what do you want from seeing him?’

That’s the million dollar question and I don’t have an answer, not a real one.

‘Closure I guess, whatever that is.’

CC Image courtesy of I like on Flickr

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Things I’ve Said to Tristan

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CC Image courtesy of masochismtango on Flickr

‘I’ve started going grey!’ Before pointing out the offending hairs.

*

‘If I was with someone and they wanted children I’d probably advise them to have them with someone else to ensure they don’t suffer from anxiety!’

*

‘If you were chatting to a girl on Tinder…’

This story definitely isn’t about me.

‘… and you’d been chatting for a while and you invited her round to yours and she came, would you ever consider going out with her or would you just see it as… just sex?’

Just sex apparently.

‘So what should you say when he asks? Just no, or… no, but how about drinks?’

Just no.

CC Image courtesy of Amy Loves Yah on Flickr

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What I’ve Learnt From Tinder

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CC Image courtesy of TinyTall on FlickrA Super Like is what happens when you drop your phone.

You don’t bat an eyelid at names like Cyril or Bas or Champagne. OK, maybe Champagne.

You start to rely on the bug that shows you people’s profiles twice, to correct all the wrong decisions you made the first time round.

You end up in what can only be described as a phone sex worker-client relationship with a friend of a friend off Tinder. Because, y’know, it might turn into a real relationship. It doesn’t.

You’re on the verge of giving up when, one lunchtime, you open the app to find you’ve matched with The Man from Hampstead.

‘You’re the first person I’ve matched with who I’ve met in real life!’ he writes. ‘Exciting times.’

CC Image courtesy of doug_wertman on Flickr

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Haunted

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CC Image courtesy of Debs (ò‿ó)♪ on FlickrBeatrice has just texted to say she’s got a Tinder date lined up.

‘He’s a ginger version of Rob,’ she says, ‘so that might be a problem.’

‘I think Ginger Rob is par for the course,’ I send back. ‘I’ve spent the last eight months looking for a doppelganger of Viable Prospect.’

I go upstairs to get ready. My top needs ironing and I’m contemplating washing my hair in the vain hope it will come out looking entirely different. Longer and more bouncy.

I put away the ironing board, transfer essential items to my evening bag. There’s ten minutes until I need to leave, enough time to reply to a couple of messages.

At the top right of the screen, a small number two, in red. Reminders, no doubt, of invitations unanswered. I click on the icon and feel my stomach drop.

 

Two days earlier…

Beatrice shifts in her chair. ‘It’s embarrassing.’

‘It’s not!’

I tell her about the time I almost went to see someone for the same reason. ‘But I knew a therapist couldn’t tell me what I needed to know – only he could do that. So I messaged him, and, when he stopped replying, I was finally able to move on.’

‘Do you still think about him?’

I shrug. ‘I guess I compare people to him. But I know now he doesn’t want to be with me, and it’s invaluable, knowing that.’

 

I stare at the screen a moment.

‘Fuck you!’ I say with a half-laugh. ‘Fuck you!’ I get up, pace the room. ‘You are not fucking doing this. You’ve fucking ruined enough of my fucking life already. You are not ruining my evening.’ I grab my coat and bag. ‘I am going to have a fabulous night.’

 

‘Do you want another drink?’ My date gestures towards the menu. ‘Or do you want to dance or… do you just want to get out of here?’

He’s already told me he’s not a very good dancer.

‘Err… out of here?’

‘So,’ he says, once we’re outside, ‘your place or mine?

I suppress a smile. ‘Err… yeah, that’s what I meant earlier by I think we want different things.’

‘Ah.’

 

Tubing home, my thoughts drift to another first date. We didn’t want the same things either.

CC Image courtesy of nehavish on Flickr

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For You

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CC Image courtesy of raxenne on Flickr

you are lithe
live
in love with words
graceful
gazelle
restless
sure
weak
unsure
nervous
strong
sexy
deep
brown
eyes
watchful
intense

sexy again

you get me out of bed
you’d get me into bed
you’d stop me sleeping

you are my thoughts before my dreams
my stories star you
my poems too

come
come into my dreams
I dress for you
I’d undress for you
I look my best for you

I do the rest for you
I do it all for you

I do
I do

CC Image courtesy of eatmorechips on Flickr

 

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