‘You do?’
‘Yeah,’ Bridie said. ‘She’s dating. She’s going to things. She laughs.’
I smiled. ‘Good.’
The silence lingered for a while. ‘Do you …’ she began.
‘Do I have a boyfriend?’ I scoffed. ‘Bridie, howdareyou ask me that?’
The laughter rose and fell and rose again. ‘I sometimes go to DejaVu and get a bit worried I’ll see you there,’ she said.
‘Oh, Jesus.’ I rubbed my head. ‘You wouldn’t catch me dead in that place. I can’t dance and I can’t afford the cover charge.’
‘Do you see people, though? Men?’
‘Yes, Bridie, I see men.’
‘How?’
‘I date online,’ I said. ‘Sporadically. And very privately. I’m not a stand-around-in-a-bar guy. Or a clubber. I tried that, in thebeginning. Thought I should go to a gay bar and just present myself as a prospective member of The Gays. Fill in the application form. After a few soul-destroying nights of being avoided like a leper, a helpful little twink came up and told me that the way I was dressed and the way I stood and the way I was looking at people was screaming “cop” so loudly nobody could think straight.’
‘Oh my god,’ Bridie snickered. ‘What did you do?’
‘I said, “Honey, this is a gay bar, nobody in here was thinking straight anyway.”’
‘What! Did you really say that?’
‘No.’ I sighed. ‘I thought of it three weeks later.’
‘Oh, man.’
‘But I’ll have it pre-loaded for next time.’
‘Do gays not like cops?’
‘Sometimes, but definitely not in that circumstance. In that situation I was so cagey they figured I was undercover wanting to bust people for drugs.’
‘Poor you.’
‘You live and learn.’
‘So, now you date online,’ Bridie said.
‘Yep.’
‘Are you with someone?’
‘Oh, no.’
‘Why?’
‘Urgh. How much time have you got?’
‘Plenty.’
‘I’m emotionally unavailable.’ I started listing on my fingers. ‘I don’t text. I don’t take selfies. I don’t hold hands. I’m a socially anxious workaholic with a huge chip on my shoulder, and I could really use a pedicure.’
She laughed. ‘Well, at least you’re self-aware.’
