After four months of chatting online, I finally agreed to meet up with a 52-year-old gentlemanand his first words were five complaints.
They say the anticipation of an event is often sweeter than the event itself. In my case, the anticipation stretched on for nearly four months and played out like a digital soap opera, complete with daily episodes.
During that time, Id learned everything about Williams preferences right down to how he takes his tea, memorised the names of his childhood friends, and even stopped being surprised by his quirky habit of putting three dots after every good morning.
At forty-five, I was well past the age of first-date jitters. Now, I approached these meetings with a wry curiosity, almost like a naturalist heading into the wild: Lets see what sort of specimen Ill encounter this time, I mused as I got ready.
Ive always been one of those women who can make a simple cashmere jumper look like a royal robe, and who possesses enough self-deprecating humour to defuse any awkwardness.
William, who had recently turned fifty-two, had come across in messages as thoughtful and serious-minded, with a touch of witwhich, honestly, made him seem reliable.
At our age, Christina, he would write during those late evenings, people arent after fireworks anymore, just a bit of warmth. Someone who understands without words.
Well, no need for words, then, Id chuckle inwardly, touching up my mascara. As long as the words that are spoken dont make me want to dart for the door, that is.
We arranged to meet in a little, cosy caféthe sort with gentle lighting and the scent of cinnamon buns. I arrived right on time, composed and confident, expecting a good evening. I must say, I looked my best.
William showed up about five minutes later. In person, he was a little shorter than hed looked in his photos, and had the expression of someone who had just discovered a significant oversight in a spreadsheet.
He sat across from me, offered a brief smile and a brisk hello.
No compliment, not even a warm nice to finally meet you.
He looked me over with the air of someone conducting an inspection. Then he suggested we order coffee and something sweet, which I readily agreed to.
Christina, he began, his tone reminiscent of a deputy head before an assembly, Ive spent a lot of time thinking about our correspondencealmost four months. Now that Ive met you, I feel I need to be honest right away. I have five issues with you.
Something quietly shattered inside methe sound of a good mood breaking. I rested my chin on my hand and nodded.
Five issues? How intriguing. Do go on.
He didnt pick up on the sarcasm and held up his first finger.
Complaint one: photos
One of your photos, the one in the blue dress, your figure seems different. Now I see you in person, youre more curvaceous. It could mislead a man, you know. At our age, women should be more honest.
I stifled an inward laugh. Curvaceouswell, thats a new one. Better than monumental, I suppose.
Complaint two: response times
Sometimes you reply far too slowly. For instance, three weeks ago I messaged you at 2:15pm and you replied at 4:40pm. Men dont appreciate waiting. It feels disrespectful.
I started, I was in a meeting then, I think but he was already raising a second finger.
Complaint three: choice of venue
Why did we meet here? This place is a bit too posh. I suggested somewhere simpler. Your choice signals a tendency towards showiness.
I glanced at my latte and briefly contemplated tossing it over his head, but curiosity kept me in my seat.
Complaint four: appearance
Why did you wear that dress? Were only here for a coffee. Its far too striking for midday. And the jewellery is unnecessary. Women should attract with depth, not dazzle. At my age, I look for substance, not a shop window.
Complaint five: independence
You chose the place yourself, and you often insist on your own opinions. You dont let a man feel like a man. I want a woman who asks for advice, not someone demonstrating independence all the time. If were to be together, youll need to rethink your behaviour.
He finished and folded his arms, waiting for either confession or gratitude for his candour.
I looked at him and, all at once, it dawned on me: four months of messaging had just been camouflage for a pedantic manipulator. He wasnt seeking warmthhe was seeking someone to bolster his ego.
You know what, William, I said gently, almost kindly, Ive been doing some analysing myself. Unlike you, it took me only five minutes to draw a conclusion.
And what would that be? he asked, narrowing his eyes.
Youre something unique. You crossed the whole city just to tally up a womans taste, appearance, and her right to be herself, the first time you meet. Thats a level of self-importance I rarely see.
He frowned. Im just being honest.
No, I shook my head. Youre not honest. Youre unhappy, and trying to measure the world with a warped yardstick. My photos arent satisfactory? Maybe try an art gallerythey havent changed in years. Im slow to reply? Buy yourself a Tamagotchithey dont mind waiting. Not a fan of my dress? I didnt put it on for you; I wore it for me.
I stood, adjusted my bag, and looked him in the eye.
And finally, if your ego is so shaken by my independence, what you need isnt romance, but therapy. At forty-five, I value my time too much to start off any relationship with an audit of my shortcomings.
Where are you going? What about the coffee? William mumbled.
You can finish your own coffee. Itll help you save resources. Oh, and a tipif you want women hanging on your every word, book an appointment with a dentist.
Back at home, the first thing I did was block William from every messenger app. At my age, contentment isnt just a soft blanket and peace and quietits also a phone free from people who want to squeeze you into their twisted little mould.
So, what do you think? Was that a failed flirtation, or just a carefully choreographed performance? And honestly, is there any point in continuing when someone starts by presenting you with a bill for simply being yourself?
