And the dating scene—don’t get me started. I’d expected elegant dinners at private members clubs with refined gentlemen, but England is infested with as many Peter Pan boys as America. Since it’s been impossible to meet anyone IRL (the Brits have this thing where they think it’s hugely impolite to strike up a conversation with strangers), I’ve re-downloaded the apps, regressing to a depressing phase of life I thought I’d left behind many years ago. The boys—definitelynotmen—I match with misspell my name as they message me last-minuteHiya Cat, u keen for a cheeky pint?and then show up late to divey pubs, boasting sleeve tattoos and smoker’s breath.
So far, I’ve bailed on every date after half an hour. It’s only taken two minutes to know it wasn’t going to work out. I’ve endured the remaining twenty-eight minutes out of sheer courtesy.
But that’s all in the past now because here it is, the proof that I was right to hold onto my high standards. “I’ve found him,” I tell Jules.
“Found who?” she wants to know.
“Him,”I say, rather annoyed that she isn’t able to read my mind, but also overjoyed to have an excuse to retell the whole story. “My prince.”
I’ve shared the SparkNotes version of my dates with Jules, and she’s declared that I’m being far too choosy. “What’re you on about?” she asks expectantly, arching one wispy eyebrow, then the other. “What’s the punch line?”
“No punch line. I’ve fallen in love.” Prancing around the flat, I fan out my joggers. The pilled cotton feels like a proper ballgown.
“You’re ’igh on summat,” Jules says, eyeing me closely for signs of drugs.
“And never coming down,” I agree, grinning up at the vintage wood beams on the ceiling. “I’m serious, Jules. He was right there.” I point out the window and know I must look like a lunatic, but I relish it, the feeling of being crazy. For so long now, everything has been muted and monochrome, and now it’s loud and vibrant again, and I’m going to keep shouting about it until Jules can hear the songs and see the starlight too. “He was sitting on the top deck of the 4 bus and giving off incontrovertible ‘future husband’ vibes.”
Something switches in Jules’s eyes where she goes from being exasperated to amused. She plops down on the undersized sofa that came with my “fully furnished” flat, along with a droopy mattress and five flimsy clothes hangers. In an attempt at salvation, I’ve covered the couch in a plush slipcover and adorned it with tasseled throw pillows that appeared as the top result of my “cultured home decor that can be machine washed” Google search. The off-white walls have been left bare to honor my lazy style that I pass off as minimalist chic. There’s really no point investing in art when I’m only here for a short time.
“Righ’o, babes,” Jules says with her endearingly crooked-toothed grin. She takes a hearty swig from her mug as she cozies up for a good story. “Back up and start at the beginning.”
“The beginning.” The phrase moisturizes my chapped lips with all its untainted potential. “It goes like this: I fell in love this morning.” My tone is matter-of-fact, even as everything else feels the opposite of logical, twisting and turning and reshaping all my jagged fragments into joyous fantasies.
Recounting the events, I expand the one and a half seconds of eye contact into a fifteen-minute tale. (I leave out the detail ofdisappearing beneath my desk, as it’s not central to the plot and doesn’t do justice to the composed heroine that I identify as.)
“This is full-on,” Jules says, once I start talking in circles. “Should’ve known you would deliver a quin’essential ’ollywood rom-com.”
“It’s not a Hollywood rom-com,” I say, my chin jutting out in defiance. “It’s a real-life rom-com. I’m going to marry him, Jules. Just watch.”
A chortle catches in Jules’s throat as if she’s trying hard not to let it escape all the way. “What if the bloke’s already got a partner?”
“Impossible,” I snap, grievously offended at the very suggestion. “There’s no way such an upstanding gentleman would cheat with the kind of intimate eye contact that he shared with me.”
“’Course not,” Jules recovers, mouth twitching as she takes another drag of her cig. “But ’ow are you going to track ’im down? This city has got nine million bloody people. The odds aren’t exactly in your favor, babes.”
“Yes, well the odds of us being born weren’t in our favor either, were they?” I retort. “But here we are.”
“Can you actually prove we’re alive, though?” Jules poses, taking on a philosophical posture as she stretches out on the sofa, tube-socked feet dangling off the edge. “We could be in a simulation.” This is her second-favorite rant, behind moaning about the classist discrimination of cigarette taxes.
“I don’t really care if it’s a simulation or not, so long as my prince and I are in it together,” I reply, with a splash of self-righteous sass. “He’ll be back on that same bus tomorrow, I’m sure of it.”
“And then what? You’ll ’old up a sign in your window that says ‘MARRY ME, ROMEO’?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. That would be over the top.”
“But falling in love at first sight from your window is proper chilled,” Jules deadpans.
“You can laugh all you want,” I tell her. “But I’m going to end up with that man. In fact, I’m deleting my dating apps right now. No need for them anymore!” Giddy with relief, I find my phone and delete them on the spot, feeling a weight lifted as I watch them vanish from my home screen, clearing out literal and metaphorical space.
“You had the exclusive talk with your eye contact, I reckon?” Jules says.
“Indeed we did.”
Eye contact is how Mateo and I began too. Five years ago, I was out at The Spaniard in the West Village with one of my roommates, and Mateo caught my eye from across the bar. Immediately, I declared that he was going to be my next boyfriend. My roommate laughed it off, but I proved to be correct. Mateo had a bottle of champagne delivered to our table and then sauntered up to ask me out. I hadn’t imagined the attraction, and the memory gives me confidence that I’m not imagining it now either.
And this is different too. Mateo had more of an ego right from the start, flexing with grand gestures that I should’ve known he couldn’t sustain. My double-decker bus prince gives off more genuine energy that bodes well for our future trajectory.
I ended things with Mateo back in January, eight months ago now, after he told me to send him a link to the engagement ring I wanted. Perhaps he genuinely thought he was being nice to let me pick it out, but it felt like he wasn’t willing to put in the time and effort to choose something special. The Mateo I’d fallen forwould’ve spent months custom designing a ring with sentimental significance. But somewhere along the way, he’d stopped trying and started taking me for granted. It felt like our relationship was on autopilot, and he was content with the coasting but I was not.
