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harrison-abbott · 3 years

Text

PUT SOME COLOGNE ON

I met up with one of my mates for a pint and somewhere along the line we got talking about our ex-girlfriends, in a jocular way. My old girlfriend and I had (by mutual consent) broken up about three years and nine months earlier, so going on four years, and I’d kinda resigned myself to masturbation and had lost confidence in women in general. Ha. My friend asked me if I was on Tinder. I said no. He said I should give it a go. “You’re still a goodlooking guy and you’re still young. Why not?”

So I did, I went on Tinder. Technology and things like social media have never been my strongpoint and I was probably born in the wrong year and would be far more successful if I were living in a previous century. In short, I’m old fashioned and things like Tinder never intrigue me. Anyway I set up the profile thing and put a photo up (which was taken years previously and wherein I thought I didn’t look visibly autistic: could look at the camera and was smiling). Didn’t mention that I was Asperger’s in the profile info and said that I played guitar and made my own tunes, hoping that it’d be a magnet. And waited for results. And got one. Some. Later that night. This girl messaged me back. I asked her if she was free tomorrow night and she said yeah and she was still at university and looked pretty good in her pics and we arranged a date. Her name was Emma.

I got pretty excited about it all. And got this red tartan shirt out and shaved extra carefully and put some cologne on and it was in early October when the cold was just beginning to overtake the year and outside whence I embarked in the streets there were nice scuttles of leaves and I hopped on the tram down to this bar where I was to meet this Emma.

It was me who chose the bar and it was a cocktail/craftbeer place. Had been there many a time and I hoped it was snazzy enough and I got there early and waited for her to arrive, looking at her photos to make sure I recognised her when she came in. She had great curly hair and was half Spanish and these bouncy lips, in the pics, and umm, when she did come in (not late) she was far better in animation and I waved to her and she smiled and came over to me and I thought a hug and kiss on the cheek would be ample and I was surprised at how well I did it and I asked her what she wanted to drink and then brought the drinks over and we got speaking.

Emma was actually fully Spanish, I discovered, in that she had been born in Spain and then when she was two her parents moved her here (her mother was Scottish). So I asked her questions about Spain and got her to teach me words and she seemed to be liking it and when I do try in conversations I try to lead on the other in order to hide my lack of verbal ability. But then she started to ask me about my music. And even though I was confident when playing my own stuff and composing songs I couldn’t talk about it that well and then, as I spoke, I started to feel my facial tick acting out again, and because this was the first date in an aeon the tick got pretty jumpy and bad and she almost certainly noticed it and then my mind started running down all these tunnels where I was bullied (about the twitch) in high school and my voice got low and monotone at the same time and then I asked her if she wanted another drink, to which she said, “Yes please, a Bloody Mary,” and I excused myself to the bathroom first to try and break the situation, said I would bring em back on the way back and I cooled down in the toilet and there was this incredibly obscene bit of graffiti inside the cubicle that was flagrantly Sectarian and about football and it was weird to see it in a joint like this and I washed my hands and went back outside and went to the bar and ordered two Bloody Marys, which cost £8 each and I chose the medium spiciness choice and I took them over to the table where Emma was messing on her phone and she grinned and kept texting for fifteen seconds, messaging one o her pals.

She was remarkably beautiful and I was confident.

I asked how do you say Bloody Mary in Spanish and she told me and I thought her giggle at my pronunciation was genuine.

Sipping on the drink, the spice caught the tonsils and I coughed for quite the while and she wasn’t impressed and I blushed and tried to joke it away and my eyes got watery and I asked her if she had any hobbies herself, which I felt a standard question, and I’ve always felt that folks should have a hobby because what the fuck else would you do with yourself – what’s the point in life if you’re not intrigued? – and umm, she said, not really, basically. Emma had none.

Queried whether she liked movies. She said no, as well, to the same vague extent. But she did like TV shows and she’d been watching Killing Eve a lot recently.

I said that I’d seen bits of Killing Eve too and I got why it was popular, only that I found it a bit disturbing because Jodie Comer is so attractive and it seems perverse to watch this sexy serial killer go about murdering and I actually stopped watching on the second episode for this reason – and I was interested in it as well, I just thought it was a bit dodgy to keep on watching. … Emma was totally nonplussed by my comments. She said the show did have a story in it. Plot, which she liked. “There’s plot, and there’s blood,” she said. “I dig that type of stuff.” And throughout this she had all but finished her crimson drink, which she sucked fairly quickly through a white straw and she’d finished before me and all the whiles as I spoke she glanced at her phone which kept flashing with new messages and I hurried up my Bloody Mary because it seemed as if I were way behind and when I did so I said, “So you want another one of these – or perhaps another cocktail?” and she said, “No, thank you.” And this answer seemed ominous and just then at that direct point her telephone rang and she said, “Sorry, I have to take this call, is that okay?” And she got up and put her coat on and left and went outside, and stayed outside for about ten minutes whilst I just sat there wondering what would happen and then she came in again and back to me and she lifted up her handbag from under the table and strapped it around her shoulder and she swished the curls from her cheeks behind her ears and did not look at me as she said, “Thanks for a nice night. Nice to meet you. Bye bye.”

And walked out of the bar.

That was what happened on my first and last Tinder date.

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