When I eventually rounded the corner I was relieved to see the welcoming logo of the Metrolink station; at least getting back to my apartment would be easy enough. Seeking refuge in the corner of the shelter, I lowered my face, hiding away from the burning eyes of the morning commuters. I’d never felt so embarrassed, especially since the excuse of reckless youth was no longer on my side.
A bloody one-night stand had been the last thing on my agenda. That’s why I’d subscribed to eHarmony in the first place and didn’t just get one of those hook-up apps like some of my friends suggested. I wanted something more. I’d spent the last ten years wanting something more, watching everyone around me fall in love, waiting for my turn.
I felt a pang of guilt; it wasn’t Gavin’s fault the evening ended like it did. It takes two to sing a duet, after all, and I’d a vague awareness of suggesting ‘coffee’. Gavin, by the way, was his name; poor bloke, I fully anticipated that he’d wake up feeling as used as I had on those few occasions in the past. I didn’t think he was just after a hook-up, which made my actions worse. Probably just the result of a nice evening and plenty of Barolo! I told myself.
I tried to process the date. My urge to leave had been pretty strong, and I wasn’t sure why – would it have been so bad to have stayed? For the most part the date had gone okay. There was the bill issue of course but should that matter if I liked him? We’d eaten at a beautiful Italian restaurant, and mostly the conversation had flowed. It was sometimes a bit awkward: a few tense silences where I’d had to elongate the length of my usual ‘sip’ of wine. In fact, that may have been a catalyst for my situation. Despite the fact he was easy on the eye, I supposed there was just no chemistry, which was odd since eHarmony is supposed to be a ‘scientific’ match.
That didn’t excuse my behaviour. If the roles were reversed and my one-night stand had snuck out on me, I’d have had an army of friends on hand, armed with Chardonnay and insults. I wasn’t sure the same went for blokes.
I took my seat on the tram and pulled out my phone. In an effort to regain my inner peace and ensure Gavin wasn’t hurting too much, I began typing out an email. The clicking sound of my nails on the screen seemed impossibly loud, each strike a disapproving ‘tut’ at my behaviour. I glanced up and had a quick look around the tram; luckily nobody seemed to be paying me the blindest bit of notice. I eased back into my chair to finish the message:
Hi Gavin,
Thank you for last night, it was lovely. Sorry I had to dash off this morning without saying goodbye – I had to get to work and didn’t want to wake you. I hope you don’t have a hangover!
Mel
I felt a mild sense of satisfaction. I’d excused myself in a polite yet non-committal, no-indication-of-a-second-date manner. Hopefully he wouldn’t be left thinking that he’d done anything wrong – a courtesy that many men in the history of dating have failed to extend. I added an ‘x’ underneath my name but deleted it straight away. My knowledge of one-night-stand etiquette was limited to say the least, so I’d no idea how suggestive a kiss on the end of an email was.
Come to think of it, I wasn’t sure why I put kisses on any of my messages to people. Translated into real life it would be plain weird, a physical kiss after each single line of speech. On the other hand, messages looked weird without them – to me at least – almost cold and unfriendly. Perhaps I was just reading too much into it in an attempt to distract myself from the consuming guilt. I had kissed Gavin in real life, obviously, but I didn’t want to give him the impression I wanted to do it again. I opted for a smiley emoji as a compromise and hit ‘Send’ before I had time to mull it over any more.
I spent the last five minutes of the journey checking Twitter. It seemed I’d earned my 2500th follower, which was something I felt quite smug about. It was almost like being a celebrity, having such a large number of people interested in what I had to say. I had time to tweet a quick thank you to my new followers before we pulled into the station.
When I got off the tram at Piccadilly, Manchester city centre was already bustling with people seemingly eager to get to work. I felt like a slutty beacon in my ripped dress, a great advertisement for the red-light district. Luckily for me, I’d arranged to take today off as a holiday. Not that I’d expected to be sleeping out – the whole reason for arranging a Thursday night date was to keep it simple and pressure free – I just needed to use up the holiday . . . and the fancy matching underwear was ‘just in case’.
I supposed that because one of our declared mutual interests on eHarmony was alcohol (okay, socialising) any form of rational thinking was smothered by wine. I pulled out my phone and kept my head down, scrolling through my calendar for the following week. I didn’t have much on, except my thirty-fifth birthday the following day – a fact I was trying not to think about.
My phone buzzed to life, interrupting my thoughts. ‘Bugger off, Amanda.’
‘Ha! Date went well then? I knew you were off today, and I
