Terminally single

[fiction]

Hello, yes, Barry speaking. Thank you for agreeing to this call, doctor. While not entirely beyond help – I am quite screwed up, doc. I’m afraid to say I’ve let my family down with my dreadful behaviour over the years and, yes, countless other people too.

Consider the catalogue of perfectly normal women I’ve ghosted on the dating apps. Just because they had a funny look about them, or a kid, or a fat arse. That’s bad. To complain about being single after that is so bad, doc, don’t you think?

But I’m too old to care about looks any longer. It might sound corny to you but this year I’m looking for companionship and old-fashioned romance. I want to share my remaining time with someone special, even if she is an absolute grenade.

Yes doctor, I secured my first date of the year in January, which was a welcome surprise. But would it be everlasting love? No, is the short answer.

We matched on Swipely after a light catfishing on my part, before striking up a tedious conversation about physical exercise. Her name was Deb. She liked running and dogs.

Catfishing? Well, in its purest form this is the process of luring someone into a relationship by means of a fictional online persona. Here’s what I did:

Changed my name from Barry to ‘Baz’

Gave myself an extra inch (5ft11)

Used holiday photos from five years ago

Amended my job title from Junior Content Strategist to Senior Editor

Filtered my pictures to give myself a tan

Said I went to the gym three times a week

Said I didn’t drink or vape

I mean it’s not good, doc. But it’s not like I pretended to be an international rugby player or a concert pianist or something. These were just little embellishments to get us off to a good start.

Poor Deb, she was about my age. She had a pug called Crisps and was looking for a dog dad. Her profile bio read: let your smile change the world, but don’t let the world change your smile.

This is the sort of powerful energy I need in my life, doc. There’s so much anger in this country. We must have a Deb at the top immediately. The Right Honorable Deb MP. Her Majesty, Queen Deb. Don’t you agree?

My alter ego ‘Baz’ organised to meet Deb at an independent cinema in town after work.

‘Baz’ was a stand-up guy, a faithful pen pal to Deb in the days leading up to the date. Softer in approach than regular old Barry, ‘Baz’ was a studious listener and an asker of insightful questions. How are you today, Deb? What’s your favourite song, Deb? Who is the real Deb, Deb? Tell me your dreams, girl.

Deb worked as a primary school teacher but her real passion, ultimately, was dogs. Her pug, Crisps, was a rescue from a broken home that she had taken in at Christmas. You could tell she loved Crisps more than anything. Bring the little guy along, I said.

The plan was to have one or two drinks and a blether before seeing a movie, then walk Deb and Crisps back to the bus stop. There would absolutely and certainly be no sexy business, no leering, no touching, no creepy attempts to seduce Deb. It was all to be above board for gallant Baz. Unless, that is, she made the first move, doc.

I’d checked beforehand and the cinema was happy to accept small, well-behaved pets. I suppose they must have been struggling for human punters. Arthouse cinemas are the sort of places people say they go to all the time, but actually don’t.

I pitched up early and the place was empty. It had a bar at least. But with no heating on it was grimly cold. A spotty bartender was slowly wiping down tables that were already clean. I was hoping at least a few people would be around to put Deb at ease.

A dead cinema is sort of like a metaphor for culture in this country: drastically underfunded and fucking desperate. Governments pump money into all kinds of stupid, evil shit but they always cut the arts. As a creative person, I do actually care about this. I might be a junior content strategist right now, but the great 21^st Century novel is surely next. When do we riot?

I was starting to get nervous, doc. Face to face conversation with a real live woman from the real world is no joke. Especially when it’s been months and you feel like a fat, balding mess. Would Baz really wear this outfit? And this much aftershave?

Oh God and I wouldn’t be able to hit my vape for hours! What the hell was I going to talk about? The texting bit is easy, you can spend hours crafting a beautiful and convincing web of lies. No such luxury in person. Before long you’re spewing out platitudes like it’s a job interview.

I was distractedly looking at the film times in a leaflet when Deb walked in. She had this honed, sporty rig that hadn’t quite come across in her Swipely pics. Woof, Deb!

‘Crisps is a great judge of character,’ she said on arrival.

Little inbred freak was breathing all weird, growling.

‘Well, at least he’s not barking,’ I said.

‘He can’t bark. His vocal chords are impaired.’

‘Well, it’s nice to finally meet you, Deb! Drink?’

She ordered herbal tea from the waiter, who was happy to have something to do. I tried to pay but she wasn’t having it. She said she didn’t drink that much anyway, especially not on a school night. I mean I’m not an enabler, but I feel these situations always work better when both parties are drinking. But what would ‘Baz’ do in this situation?

‘One sparkling water please,’ I said, voice breaking.

‘So you work in marketing?’

‘That’s right. Content strategy. It’s basically journalism. I’m a journalist really.’

‘That’s cool. Does it pay alright?’

‘Oh yeah. Especially when you get to Senior.’

Things were going well, doc. By the time she had finished her tea I had constructed a completely fake life. She wasn’t giving a whole lot away. I couldn’t be sure if she was onto me, or indeed, into me. She didn’t seem like a mug. I’d have to be careful, especially with Crisps sniffing around.

Fortunately, the film was about to start. I’d picked something at random from the little booklet, a light hearted comedy on screen 3 called Dedication. We got popcorn and rushed to the seats.

‘It’s a comedy,’ I whispered, as the opening credits began to roll.

‘Great,’ said Deb, settling back in her seat.

What followed was not part of my beautiful plan. Fuxake. I had got the wrong screen.

‘Deb, I think we’re in the wrong –’

‘Sshhh! It’s starting!’

My beautiful plan was in tatters. The film we were now about to watch was called Dedicated Killer. And it was heavy. Within seconds a corrupt police officer was graphically beating a prostitute to death with his fists. I couldn’t even look. And I definitely couldn’t look at Deb. What kind of sociopath would bring a date to this abomination and call it a comedy?

At twenty minutes in, with much gore and killing along the way, I snuck a glance at my date. I was mortified. But while I had been sitting there traumatised, it turns out she was utterly transfixed by this movie. Things are confusing sometimes. I needed a vape.

‘Deb? Sorry, just popping to the loo –’

‘Sshhh! Take the dog with you, he needs a pee.’

She was staring straight ahead stuffing popcorn into her mouth.

‘Sure. See you in a minute.’

I had to drag Crisps down the aisle towards the exit. I do like dogs, doc, but this one didn’t like me. Thankfully the film was so loud and violent you couldn’t hear the whining noises he was making. I ended up carrying him into the bathroom like a baby, where I took a couple of hearty blasts on the vape.

After five or six vigorous quaffs, I took a draw so deep that an unexpected coughing fit came on. Crisps scurried loose from my grip and bolted towards the door, which was ajar.

A daring escape you had to admit. I quickly pursued, surprised by his speed and agility in the foyer. But to my horror, he wasn’t darting back to screen 3 – he was going for the street entrance.

There was nothing I could do. When I emerged out onto the busy street, he was already halfway across the road. Poor little Crisps had been run over by a double-decker bus. Squashed flat. He was so small it didn’t even stop.

You’re never prepared for this kind of thing. Like some kind of android, I quickly calculated my options. There were only two, realistically. Carry the corpse back into the cinema and plead forgiveness or walk away then and there. Deb didn’t have any of my details. I was just Baz to her, doc.

The bus was stopping further down the road. I hopped on. By the time I got to my apartment I had deleted all the dating apps off my phone. Never again, doc.

I mean, what do you think? Can you prescribe anything for this… this catastrophe? OK, there’s no need for that kind of language doctor – what? Terminally single!?

The End

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