‘I’d really like to hear the elevator pitch of your novel. You sound really interesting.’
An altogether new feeling spreads right through me. It’s warm and soft, but as my spirit lifts, there’s also a guilt chaser. What about Johnny? What about Ted?
‘Hi, well, in a nutshell it’s about two sisters who fall out over a guy.’ I am improvising wildly here, but that’s not bad.
‘You’re Irish but not Irish-American. So no shillelaghs or bagpipes for you,’ VelvetElvis100 writes.
Now he has my attention. ‘OMG, you’re not Irish, are you?’
‘No, but I do know about cultural misappropriation when I see it.’
‘Well, that is good to know.’ I am strangely not good at dating site banter.
‘Listen,’ VelvetElvis100 writes back. ‘You sound interesting, you look cool, what do you say we cut out the bullshit back and forth and just get ourselves into a room together, try having a proper conversation?’
‘Wow, you really don’t beat about the bush, do you?’ I write.
‘Not sure what I do about bushes, but I know a really cool tapas place downtown. It would be my pleasure if you were free to hang out later. Let’s spin past the bullshit and get into a room together.’
Legs are shaved, pits are shaved. Also, reminder, I am bored.
‘Can you be there at 9 p.m.?’
‘VelvetElvis100’ turns out to be Ryan, a programmer from Saskatchewan. I want to tell him all about my office days, but I remember that Toronto Esther is cosplaying as a cool, bohemian creative. The thought of being a whole new person makes me feel slightly exhausted, but I tell myself that this is an exercise in creativity.
As I push the door into the very stylish Patria, near the CN tower, I feel lightheaded. I don’t know what this is, really. A date, an experiment, a way to run away from the weirdness out at Naomi’s house.
Ryan has a well-put-together and handsome, if strangely nondescript, face. He could feasibly get away with murder because literally no one would be able to recognize him, his face is that ordinary. As I sit down, he doesn’t look me in the eye. He has the jaded mannerisms of someone who has done this a lot. I suspect that for Ryan, this is like a job interview with patatas bravas. A necessary, if inconvenient, part of adulting.
‘So, your accent is really cool,’ he offers.
‘Oh right, yeah,’ I laugh, amping up the Northside vowels.
‘I’d love to go there someday.’
‘Well, I normally live in London, so you’d have to give me some kind of notice if you’re looking for a tour guide for Dublin. And airfare.’
‘What kind of volunteering do you do?’
‘Whuh?’
‘Your profile said you volunteer.’
ARSE. ‘Oh, I did, in an animal shelter. It’s called… Battersea Dog’s Home.’
‘Right on.’
Four drinks in, Ryan has moved in closer so that his arm is resting on the small of my back. I have no idea how it got there. He didn’t make any big, grand move that I noticed. His arm was slowly, slowly inching, then all at once it was right there. I’m OK with it.
‘I love Richard Linklater,’ he is cooing. His face is square with mine, cocking back every so often, the classic prelude to a kiss. ‘I knew you would like him too. Chicks like you always do.’
What in God’s name is that supposed to mean?I think but don’t say. I resist the urge to mention Ted. It would just be too weird. Ryan is then telling me about how he thinks Catholicism is ‘way romantic’ (‘all those schoolgirl uniforms’), and I want to tell him that my school was about as romantic as a pap smear when Ryan’s head falls in for a kiss. Another dizzying moment. Against my will, I think back to how deeply I meant those marriage vows when I said them to Johnny. Mushroom vol-au-vent. I never expected another first kiss in my life. I truly believed I’d had my last one of those. Maybe all my great first kisses are ahead of me, not behind.
Ryan occasionally bites my lower lip, gently at first but then with more menace. It doesn’t exactly augur well, but I also feel powerless against this brand-new…whateverthis is.
I blush as Ryan pays the bill with a gallant flourish– this is a first, when you’ve conducted most of your pre-marriage ‘dating’ life in indie clubs, skate parks and Chicken Cottage– and leads me wordlessly into a taxi. He’s got that ‘need to pee urgently’ look in his eyes that some guys get before they get laid.
His apartment is sterile and monochrome– he has the good grace at least to have it smelling clean. His bedclothes, in an unsettling shade of brown, definitely give me pause for thought. The Patrick Bateman energy is way too intense here. The apartment’s ‘accenting’ is, predictably, a wall of vinyl records, a lumpen beanbag in front of a TV screen the size of Brazil, some stark and hard-edged stuff by Bang & Olufsen. Never a good sign, if it’s decent sex you’re after.
