‘How is he old-fashioned if he’s on Tinder? Seriously.’
I compose and delete a few messages. I don’t know how to initiate.
‘How do I do it?’
‘You type out “hi”. That’s all, Natalie.’
I take some deep breaths and type ‘hi’. It looks so awkward and needy, two little letters, boring and plain, nothing to go with them, nowhere to go after them except for another ‘hi’. Then what? Then would I have to come up with something else? I delete it and sigh.
Kim flicks the station to a Saturday night chat show. A bunch of movie stars sit on a couch. The excitable audience cheers anytime any of the stars speak about anything.
I jump when my phone buzzes.
A message from Vincent.
How now, fair lady?
I clamp my hands to my chest.
Kim laughs at me, and at him.
‘Stop, Kim, I’ll get too embarrassed.’
‘Okay, okay, I won’t say anything except don’t reply too quickly.’
I watch the rest of the show with her, not paying attention to any of its mumble-whoop.
When it ends, I wait for the weather forecast then say goodnight and go upstairs. I lie on the single bed in my tiny bedroom and reply to Vincent.
We have a nice flow in our conversation. We over and back until midnight.
In the coming days, I find myself looking forward to his messages and enjoy thinking of responses to them. I am filled with anticipation and nerves at the prospect of meeting him when he finally asks me out.
He’s nearly five years older than me and very, very quirky. I haven’t had sex in thirty-seven months.
We arrange to meet at the Unitarian Church, to go for a nice picnic.
I alight the tram and spot him across the road, in front of the neo-gothic church. My stomach sinks a little.
He wears tweed trousers and smokes a vape pipe. He’s like someone out of a Dickens novel, except for the SuperValu bag-for-life he’s holding.
I take a deep breath and walk across the road. The sun creeps out from behind the clouds and it’s warm on my skin.
Vincent kisses me jovially on each cheek. He smells of lavender and wood.
‘Are you coming from some sort of historical re-enactment?’ I ask and he blushes, thanking me profusely.
Despite all this, the date goes quite well as we sit on a woollen blanket in the Green. He pours a turnip and leek soup from a flask into a cup, hands it to me.
‘I made it myself,’ he says.
He lays out some homemade bread, smoked herring and cold meats. For sweets, a fruit salad with yogurt, and treacle cake with ginger jam. He has another flask with mint leaf tea and a glass bottle of iced water with lemon.
I’m moved by the effort he’s put into it.
He says things are ‘spiffing’ and ‘marvellous’. When he curses he says ‘blazes to this’.
I ask him, ‘Where are you from?’ unable to place his accent. I wonder has he fallen from the sky like Mary Poppins, if he’s some sort of commitment-phobe time traveller too?
‘Oh, out yonder,’ he says, waves his hand behind him. He takes out a gold pocket watch and checks the time. ‘A small village in Meath.’
He walks me back to the Luas stop and unlocks his Remington bike. ‘Can I get your number for WhatsApp, maybe?’
‘Sure,’ I say. The interest is nice.
Kim fries onions and peppers when I get home. ‘How was the date?’
The kitchen sizzles.
‘He was kind of like someone from Victorian times.’
‘Natalie, hipsters are cute.’
‘They sure try hard.’
‘You’re judging again.’
‘Kim, you don’t know what it’s like being single these days. And you’re judging me if you’re saying I’m judgemental.’
She considers this. ‘Maybe I am.’
‘Anyway, we had a good time. He made a picnic, mostly from scratch. It tasted great. Then he put on a shadow puppet show for me.’
‘He did what?’
‘I know.’
‘What was that?’
‘With his hands. In Stephen’s Green. It was mad. But maybe a bit beautiful too.’ I face my palms towards me and cross my wrists and thumbs, flexing my fingers and raising my arms as I show Kim a flying bird shadow puppet.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Kim says, her eyes open wide. ‘Arty farty, eh?’
I go to the sink and fill the kettle. ‘He thought I was being racy with my ankles exposed.’
‘Oooh.’
‘His moustache was in a debonair style, like a young Sean Connery. He was kind of strange, maybe in a deliberate way, maybe not. It was like he thought it was 1900. But he works for a tech start-up, so, yeah, it’s all a bit bizarre.’
‘Give him a chance. You’re too quick to dismiss men. There was nothing wrong with Benjy.’
‘He couldn’t remember my name.’
‘Yeah and you had a problem with his clothes too.’
‘Aw, Kim, he was dressing like a teenager, but I didn’t care about the skater dude thing. It was the being stoned all the time that put me off. I had to keep re-introducing myself.’
‘He was handsome.’
‘He wasn’t even lucid.’
‘Well, what about John?’
‘He shouted at the waitress. Called her thick. To her face. For mixing up a sauce on his burger. It was awful, so embarrassing to be associated with him. What a bollocks. You know the phrase, watch how someone treats staff and then you’ll know the real them. John was a top class bastard in sheep’s clothing.’
‘Back to the clothes again. Always clothes with you.’
‘It’s not. I meant John seemed normal but he was a prick.’
‘More reason to give Vincent a chance.’
‘True.’
‘The clothes do not make the man. What about Dave, actually?’
‘Yeah, there was nothing wrong with him but I didn’t fancy him.’
‘Do you fancy Vincent?’ Kim shakes soy sauce over her veg.
I think about it. ‘Yeah, I do, I suppose. His chest is broad and his shoulders are all squared.’ I make the shape of them with my hands. ‘He’s quite hot.’
‘Be open. I mean, to all aspects of him and his personality. You must have cobwebs at this point.’
The kettle trembles in its cradle, giddy, as the water in it boils.
‘I reckon I’d have muscle memory when it comes down to it.’
‘Of course. Hey, Natalie, don’t be looking at what’s wrong with people, look at what’s right with them. It’ll make life a shitload easier.’
I meet him for a second date. We watch a hypnotist’s show near O’Connell Street. Bit offbeat but I enjoy it. I wonder if the hypnotized people are planted actors.
‘It’s fake?’
Two women play air guitar and drums like they’re in a world famous rock band headlining the biggest concert of their life. Another person thinks his belt is a snake coiled around his waist. His panic is palpable. He’s frozen, but tries to signal for help with his eyes.
Vincent disagrees. ‘People are suggestible and most of us don’t question our own thoughts or belief systems. It’s why marketing works its magic on us so easily.’
Next person on stage believes he’s an alien and speaks in an extra-terrestrial language. The language is comprised of coughs and squeaks along with K-sounding words. When the hypnotist looks for a new volunteer, I shrink into my seat and look down at my red ankle boots.
Vincent takes my hand in his, gives it a squeeze, to indicate that it’s safe, someone else has been chosen. We hold hands for the remainder of the show.
He walks me back to my Luas stop. The moon is yellowish and huge. He kisses my cheek. I turn my face, look directly at him and he dips to kiss my lips.
There’s a heat in the moment that I didn’t expect.
On the tram, I look out the window over Harcourt, Ranelagh, Beechwood, wondering if the Victorian style is him going through a phase like when I was in university and wore thongs, or drank Smirnoff Ice, or overplayed Damian Rice’s O. I’m confused. I enjoyed the kiss. Really enjoyed it. Maybe I should meet him again. I will. If he asks. But for the third date, I decide that drinking is going to have to be done.