His name is Simon. In his pictures, he looks like a perfectly ordinary man of around thirty-five: neat, nothing flashy about his appearance. His dating profile is full of thoughts about mindfulness, personal growth, and seeking a genuine, living soul. At that point, I probably should have been cautious. Experience has taught me: the louder a man proclaims his desire for a real woman, the more likely hes looking for someone who wont ask for anything and expects little.
We messaged for several days. Simon was polite, though now and then a strange tone crept in. He especially loved to muse about how modern women, in his opinion, are spoiled by money.
All they want is restaurants, holidays in Ibiza, and new phones, he wrote. No ones interested in the soul anymore, just walking and talking for the sake of it.
As a well-mannered person, I nodded mentally, of course and gently steered the conversation elsewhere. Everyone has their scars, after all. Perhaps his ex-wife left him without a home or without illusions who knows. I try not to judge too quickly.
And then he suggested we meet. One problem: its January, and the cold snap is real. Not some mild chill, but minus twenty Celsius, biting wind making it feel even worse. The Met Office issued warnings, and public alerts urged everyone to stay indoors unless absolutely necessary.
Lets meet in the park, Simon wrote. Well go for a walk, breathe some fresh air, and get to know each other without all the nonsense.
Simon, I replied, its minus twenty out there well turn into ice sculptures in ten minutes. How about we grab a coffee in a café?
His response came instantly.
I dont go to cafés those places are full of gold-diggers waiting to be treated. Im looking for a life partner, someone ready for anything: fire, water, even frost. If you insist on me spending twenty quid for a coffee, were not on the same wavelength.
Curiosity got the better of me. I really wanted to see this champion of relationship purity, for whom a cup of coffee seemed to signal financial slavery.
Fine, I wrote. Park it is, 7 p.m. by the main gate.
Getting ready took ages. I pulled thermal underwear out of my wardrobe, along with a thick jumper and, ultimately, a ski suit. On my feet, chunky boots with woolen socks; on my head, a fur hat.
The reflection in the mirror looked ready for an Arctic expedition.
Well, Simon, brace yourself, I winked at my reflection and stepped into the frozen night.
At exactly 7 p.m. I was at the park. The cold bit my cheeks the only bit exposed. Snow crunched under my boots, and not a soul was around: sensible people, including those so-called gold-diggers, had chosen warmth.
Simon stood by the gate, wearing a thin autumn coat. He shifted from foot to foot, hopped about, and blew desperately on his hands. His nose had turned plum purple, and his ears were ablaze.
I approached.
Hello, I said, muffled behind my scarf.
He looked me over, clearly expecting to see a fragile fairy in tights, shivering prettily in the wind to give him a chance to play hero. Instead, he found someone who looked more like a rescue worker on an expedition.
Hello, he chattered through gritted teeth. You really got yourself prepared.
You did say ready for anything, so I thought Id start with cold. Shall we walk and breathe air?
Fifteen minutes of fame
We walked down the avenue. This ranks among the oddest dates Ive ever had.
How do you find the weather? I asked, rather formally.
Its invigorating, he managed. His face barely moved; only his lips worked, turning bluer by the minute. I love winter, it tests peoples spirit.
I agree, I nodded. By the way, about your theory on gold-diggers. Why is coffee proof of being one?
Talking clearly hurt the chill burned his throat but his convictions demanded sacrifice.
Because his voice shook, relationships should be about mutual interest, not money. If a girl cant just go for a walk, and immediately demands food, shes a consumer.
And what if she simply doesnt want pneumonia? I asked, adjusting my hood.
Thats just excuses, he retorted, loudly sniffing. If you want something youll find a way; just dress warmer.
Well, I certainly dressed warmly, I said, showing off my bulky silhouette. You, on the other hand are you sure youre not cold?
Im fine! he snapped, although he was trembling so hard it was obvious even in the half-light.
Ten more minutes passed, and we reached the central plaza where a closed coffee kiosk stood. Simon glanced at it with a longing deserving of a tragic hero.
Maybe we should head back? he suggested. The winds really picking up.
You cant be serious! I said cheerfully. Weve only just begun. Werent you interested in my soul? Lets talk about literature. Are you a fan of Jack London? He wrote a fabulous story called To Build a Fire the protagonist freezes to death because he underestimates the cold.
The look he gave me was anything but soulful.
Listen, I have to go, he interrupted. Ive just remembered urgent work things.
What sort of things? We planned the evening together.
Work stuff. Just remembered that I didnt send a report.
At eight pm, on a Friday?
Yes! he nearly shouted.
He spun round and practically sprinted for the exit. I followed, enjoying the moment: my survivalist lasted exactly fifteen minutes.
He didnt even say goodbye at the tube station just vanished into the welcoming warmth. I really hope he managed to thaw not only his frozen fingers, but perhaps also his convictions. Though I doubt it.
I headed home, made a steaming cup of tea, and deleted Simons messages. I didnt begrudge the time spent. Those fifteen minutes were the perfect antidote to guilt and a reminder that looking after myself doesnt make me a gold-digger.Later, as I sat curled in my blanket, tea steaming in my hands, laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep inside. I thought back to Simon in his threadbare coat, pontificating about souls while shivering on his little patch of frozen earth. I realized he was chasing purity in the abstract, but when tested by realityminus twenty, real-life warmth, and actual conversationhe fled at the first sign of discomfort.
I scrolled through my phone and saw new messages lighting up, invitations for coffee and stories and warmth. The world, I thought, is full of real souls, each seeking connection in their own way. Some of them want frostbitten walks; others want coffee. But maybe the truest thing is that you can tell everything about a person by how they treat warmthboth outside and inside.
Before I went to bed, I added these words to my profile: Looking for someone who knows that kindness isnt measured in degrees or pounds, but in how you make another feel.
And in that moment, I felt lightera little more melted by the promise of spring, and by the knowledge that Id always choose warmth, for myself and for anyone brave enough to meet me there.
