Jack* was late. I sat in a plywood booth off to the side of the small bar, worried that the dimly lit atmosphere was too romantic. Would he get the wrong impression? Should I move? I didn’t move.
I pretended to write in my notebook, but my eyes were glued to the door. Finally, he walked in. He was tall and cute in a gawkish way, like I remembered from his profile. He took one step inside, turned around and walked straight back outside. No-one had stood up me before, and this seemed a remarkably bold way to do it. My phone buzzed: “I’m here, just getting money from the ATM”. Oh, okay then.
My palms were sweaty by the time he returned. I bypassed a handshake and went in for a hug. It was stiff. Our bodies bumped disjointedly off one another.
“Take a seat,” I said. And he did.
“So,” I started, “Why didn’t we work out?”
This wasn’t our first Tinder date, but our second. However, unlike most second dates, ours had taken over six months to arrange. And I was definitely not single.
emma hardy 