Peter didn’t reply to the message asking why he’d decided I wasn’t worth seeing again, which is probably just as well. I’ve deleted his number from my phone. Late night texting is too easy. Unlike email’s big empty sheet of paper, it’s a medium of a single thought or single question. Not enough time passes between being an idiot and pressing send.
A friend, unaware that I’m attempting to date, suggested I start dating. “I am dating,” I told her. “It’s just the modern kind, when you don’t leave the house. But I’m going to meet the next man who asks me out, even if he lives in Caithness and is pictured with a great big axe.”
Later that afternoon, I got a two-line email from a man who lives 20 miles away, wanting to meet for dinner. His wasn’t a new face or name to me. Jonathan was one of the most persistent of the lurkers. He’d already visited my profile page two dozen times, in the manner of someone trying to talk himself into something, and every time he had a look, the site notched up his visit. He’d never said anything when he cast his eye, so it was surprising to get an invitation to dine with him. That’s the kind of word Jonathan uses. He dines, preferably with a lady. That makes him sound like a dinosaur, although he’s four years younger than me.
His own profile gave nothing away: he’d left all the fields blank, for interests, biography, marital status. There were no words but there were lots of pictures: he was in sunglasses in every photograph and wasn’t smiling in any of them, but I could forgive him that. Loneliness is a solemn business.
Jonathan was in a big hurry, and didn’t want to talk before the date. He was a man for one-line messages, organising messages. Did I want to have dinner or not? I said I wasn’t free until next week. He said we could pencil it in, although he might be taken by then and off the market. We established that he was single, and I asked if we could email a bit, to break the ice. He told me there wasn’t any point. “It’ll either be fireworks or it won’t,” he said. “I’ll know in the first five minutes and so will you.”
I began to be nervous. I asked if we could email anyway. He said he didn’t have time. “What do you mean, you don’t have time?” I asked him. Don’t you want to know anything about me? I could have been married nine times; I might have just got out of prison.”
“That’ll give us something to talk about,” he replied. “Give me your number. I’m going to ring you, right now.”
It turns out he’s American, and that he adopts an immediate authority on the phone. Perhaps he thinks it’s sexy to organise women (maybe he’s been infected by one of those moronic Manosphere directives about being manly and in charge: “don’t ask her, just tell her,” blah blah). I wasn’t attracted to the controlling manner, but it was pathetic that I hadn’t had a date since Peter, and this was just going to be dinner, after all.
“So,” he said. “We will have lunch.” “I thought it was dinner,” I said.
“Lunch,” he decreed. “And if we hit it off and the sex is fantastic and we have to be together, I’d like you to move in as soon as possible. It’s a drag living alone. I’m going to walk round my house and tell you all about it.”
He began to walk from room to room, describing the furnishings, the views, the antiques, the open fires, which I couldn’t help finding rather endearing. He was trying to impress me. He was wooing. When the tour was completed, I began to tell him something about myself. He interrupted me. “My dear, you don’t need to impress me with your many fine attributes. All I need to know is, do you want a man in your life? Do you want commitment?”
“Well, yes,” I said. “Theoretically.”
“Theoretically?” he repeated. “Theoretically is the enemy of the orgasm.”
“I think we should have this lunch and see what happens,” I said. “Let’s have the lunch.”
“OK then,” he said, gratified and approving. “Good girl. That’s the spirit.” By this time next week, we’ll have had our lunch. My guess is, firework-free, but who knows?
