After four months of nearly daily messages, I finally agreed to meet up with a 52-year-old gentlemanwho kicked things off with five complaints.
You know how people say that the anticipation of a holiday is often sweeter than the holiday itself? Well, in Claires case, the wait lasted nearly four months and ended up feeling like an online soap opera with new episodes every day.
By now, she knew Toms favourite foods to the tiniest detail, could recall the names of all his childhood friends, and wasnt even surprised anymore by his habit of ending every good morning message with three ellipses.
Claire was forty-fivethe age where you go on a date with amused curiosity instead of shaky knees. Lets see what kind of specimen Ive drawn this time, she thought as she got ready.
She was one of those women who could make a simple cashmere jumper look regal, and her self-deprecating sense of humour could defuse even the most awkward moment.
Tom, whod just turned fifty-two, seemed on paper like a solid, thoughtful, slightly witty sort of blokeand most charmingly, reliable.
In our age, Claire, hed write late at night, people arent chasing fireworks anymore. Were after warmth. I want to be with a woman who understands me without words.
Claire would roll her eyes and reach for her mascara, thinking, Without words thenjust as well. As long as the actual words he does use dont make me want to flee.
They arranged to meet at this cosy little café; soft lights, cinnamon in the air. Claire arrived right on timepoised, confident, ready for a pleasant evening. She looked impeccable.
Tom showed up about five minutes later. In person, he was a bit shorter than in his photos, and his expression suggested hed just discovered a mistake in a spreadsheet.
He sat opposite her, gave a brisk smile and said hello.
No compliment, no warm nice to finally meet you.
Tom gave Claire a once-overlike he was checking the premises for health and safety violationsthen suggested they order coffee and cake. They agreed.
Claire, he began, in the tone of a deputy head before a staff meeting, Ive spent almost four months analysing our correspondence. Now that Ive met you face to face, I think wed best lay out some important points straightaway. I have five complaints.
Inside, Claires good mood quietly shattered like a dropped glass. She propped her chin on her hand and gave a wry smile.
Five complaints? Thats intriguing. Go on, thenIm all ears.
Tom missed the sarcasm and raised a finger.
Firston one of your photos, where youre wearing a blue dress, your figure looks different. Now I see youre more curvy. This can mislead a man. At our age, women should be more honest.
Claire smirked in her mind. Curvynot bad, at least its better than monumental.
Second complaint: response time.
Sometimes you reply way too slowly. For instance, three weeks ago, I messaged you at 2:15, and you only got back at 4:40. Men dont like waiting. It feels disrespectful.
I think I was in a meeting then she started, but Tom was already onto the next finger.
Third complaint: venue choice.
Why here? This place is far too posh. I suggested a simpler café. Picking somewhere like this hints at showy consumer habits.
Claire eyed her latte, resisting the urge to pour it over his head. Curiosity won out.
Why the dress? Were just grabbing coffee. Its overly flashy for daytime. And the jewellerys unnecessary, too. A woman should attract through substance, not sparkle. At my age, Im looking for depth, not a shop front.
Fifth complaint: independence.
You picked the restaurant yourself, you say Ill do it myself a lot. You dont let a man feel like a man. I need a woman who asks for advice, not one parading independence. If were going to be together, youll have to rethink your behaviour.
He finished and folded his arms, clearly expecting some sort of confession or a thank-you for his so-called honesty.
Claire stared at him and suddenly saw it all clearly: those four months of messages had just been a comfortable disguise for a nitpicking manipulator. He wasnt after warmthonly someone to prop up his ego.
You know, Tomshe said gently, almost affectionatelyIve been analysing too. Took me about five minutes to reach my conclusion.
And whats that? Tom squinted.
Youre a real piece of work. Youve come all the way across town just to hand a bill to a woman youve only just metfor her taste, her looks, her right to be herself. Thats a rare level of self-confidence.
Tom scowled. Im just being honest.
No, Claire shook her head. Youre not honest; youre miserable, and youre trying to measure life with a warped ruler. Not happy with my photos? Try the museumexhibits dont change there. My reply speed annoying you? Get yourself a Tamagotchi. Dont like the dress? I wore it for me, not for you.
She stood up, adjusted her bag, and looked him calmly in the eye.
And one more thing. If your ego crumbles at the word myself, youd benefit more from rehab than romance. At forty-five, I value my time enough not to spend it on someone who starts introductions with an audit of my flaws.
Where are you going? The coffee? Tom mumbled.
You finish it yourself. Helps save your pennies. And heres a tip: if you want someone hanging on your every word, book an appointment with your dentist.
Back home, Claires first move was to block Tom everywhere. At her age, comfort is more than just a cosy blanket and silenceits a phone free from people trying to jam you into their crooked mould.
So, what do you reckonwas that a botched flirtation or a well-rehearsed theatre act? And seriously, should you carry on with someone who, from the very first minute, gives you a bill for just being yourself?
