A Curse for True Love that Couldn't

I didn't have it in myself to go with grace - that's what Swift says. And I didn't, don't, never do. It's not that I fight for relationships. More-so that I seem to wake up in the ship while it's already on fire, hoping to put the flames out and stop it sinking... having been the one to soak it in gasoline, originally.

This was so the case with my first serious dating experience on the London scene. He opened up my whole world, but my eyes were so painfully closed against the wonders he disclosed. I still liked, perhaps loved, someone else. Ultimately, they both acted the same.

"I don't want a girlfriend right now," they say, voices overlapping, one sat at a table and the other laid next to me in bed.

They go on to explain they arent 'ready for it'. This is, similarly, because "they're last girlfriend affected them so badly, mentally, and it's made them terrified of getting into a relationship and becoming that person again..." Perhaps they both thought I was some kind of powerful witch, hoping to take away their autonomy and right to a night out?

Then, the real kicker -- "I don't want to lose you though." a.k.a, let's keep hooking up. I'm a beautiful girl who deserves to be loved, just not by them and their traumatic lives. Doesn't stop them shagging their way through London now, leaving a string of broken hearts and heads more screwed up than theirs, but anyway.

Before we sat at my wooden dining table and hashed out our new relationship status as the-girl-he-pretends-is-his-girlfriend-but-isn't-exclusive-with, he was perfect.

On our first date he showed me exactly who he was over a pint and a glass of white wine. He asked if I'd read Anna Karenina, and I was so self-absorbed I pretended I had but didn't remember it. As an English grad, I felt like I had something to live up to. A persona I needed to slip into that was a shinier, more defined version of myself. It is only since a terrible sickness and fantastic revelation that I realise my self-perceived confidence was actually coming off as arrogance. Not a good look.

Either way, I compulsively lied to become someone he might like. Worse still, he did like. He walked me and my leather trousers to the bus stop and texted immediately after.

Hope that long journey home wasn't too much for you...

Oh, it was a lot like lotr

But less boring?

He made me smile enough that one turned into two, and an obscure question about the oncoming apocalypse felt so much like invisible string theory that I swung that door wide open and let him into my life. The dating was the most fun I've had during my time living in London. I was always laughing. We didn't once discuss what we expected out of a relationship. But who does? Who stops the fun to sit a practical stranger down and get serious? The high was addictive, so we both shut up.

This is what dating is like, now. You don't discuss things in the beginning, so no one knows what ground you stand on. It's too late to discuss at the end. Putting looking for something serious on Hinge is often a lie, when they (or you) want something fresh, new, and shiny. When that gets boring we go back with our begging bowl riiiiight to the beginning, double-points if your parents chirp up and ask What's James* up to these days?

*James has had his name changed to save both him and I the horror. James won't read this, as it's not Anna Karenina, or another text that might further his career. It is also written by me.

Dating is normal, I would argue, until phones get involved. Not to sound like dear old dad, but without our phones we wouldn't panic as much. The distance would create a natural yearning between both parties. Instead, we are constantly able to connect with eachother. One of my friends, we will call her Emily, admitted to stalking the man she fancies on Snapchat. I was surprised to know Emily still uses Snapchat -- given we are twenty-four -- but she explained it's purely for the map. All stories of her and her man started or ended with something like I could see on SnapMaps he was at the pub next to me... For some, it's even more all-consuming. They check the little Whatsapp last online time like it might be their next paycheck. Occasionally after a few glasses of Chardonnay, I'll hear a rare admittence that they change their Hinge location to their crush's house, distance set to one mile, just to check what their profile looks like these days. Any new pics? What are the new prompts like?

These are obviously intense, candid examples I am telling you for shock factor. There are many more. There are also many simple acts, like posting a Story on Instagram just for their crush to view it. Perhaps to even get a like from them. Women around the world will know how that hit of dopamine is like no-other, it is all consuming and addictive and rules our lives. TikTok guru's tell us them viewing our story means nothing or everything, that we are categorised as modern marry kiss kill's and we deserve more, more, more. We are high value. We are temples. We are so so lost.

A woman stands on a train platform after a long day in the office. Her feet ache in her high heels, and her train home to Kent is due to leave soon. On that same platform a man runs at full whack, briefcase in hand and desperate to outrun the train to catch her in time. He knows what train she gets because he's been listening every now and then to her talk at work, face turned toward the printer shyly, so he's heard her Chatham accent.

No, this isn't the start to a new three-part BBC serial killer documentry (that you'd binge... be honest...). It's how my parents met. My dad ran down that platform after he got the nerve to ask my mum on a date, and she said yes. They were engaged before the year was out -- mere months.

To my knowledge, we don't live like this now. I made this realisation after James and I were over over, after seeing eachother a handful more times. Totally coincidentally. I would never drive a county over to pick him up, bring him back to my house, cook for him, then take him home, why?

I decided to sack off Hinge, Raya, Bumble, etcetera, and start just going up to people. I wanted my meetcute and figured the more I spoke to strangers the higher my chances, surely.

The first was terrifying, a university peer in a Starbucks while I was by myself. He was tall, handsome, and Italian-looking, and I furiously texted my friends asking for backup. He stood and joked with his friend as he waited for his coffee, and I was running out of time. Assistance wasn't coming, there would be no casual meeting, I had to just go up to him. Before his macchiato arrived. So I did.

I squared my anxious shoulders, folded my shaking hands together, and muttered a breathless, "Excuse me?"

"Yes?"

"Um, do you mind if I ask you a question?"

Hint: this hack works over text too. Always ask someone you like a question - don't start with hello, I've found that people always respond to questions because the curiosity gets to them everytime (even ex's, people who dislike you, ex's who dislike you... do with that infomation what you will, soldier). Then, when you have them hooked, it's up to you to stay interesting.

"...Sure?"

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No, why?"

I laugh. He isn't funny, I just laugh when I'm anxious. "Oh! Great! Could I maybe get your number?"

He smiles now. Says sure, exchanges phones with me. Could this be it? Are we in love?

We aren't. He's actually nineteen, I discover over a very expensive steak and red wine dinner in a bijou little Italian restaurant that he knows all the staff, personally, in. It's a horrible feeling finding out someone is much younger than you. Especially with their extended family around.

Am I a cougar? That's not hot. We never go on another date.

Next up, I'm on the tube.

Two oversized bags are to hand, stuffed with makeup, two spare outfits, trainers, and my going-out handbag. I am making my weekly commute to Central from Tooting Bec, where I go out with my old uni mates and inevitably stay the night. It is the morning after. I have foregone makeup. Of any kind. My hair is day-two straightened and recently bleached Rachel Greene blonde, so it's frazzled at the end now and not slick, like the night before.

My eye catches on what can only be described as a beautiful head of hair.

It's not that I have a fetish for hair or anything, I just seem to always be attracted to men with gorgeous, Prince Charming from Shrek locks. This man is no exception. He is also in a blue suit, which doesn't hurt. He's stood next to me for a stop and a half, and despite us both having headphones in - and I'm notably staring pointedly away - i'm convinced he's glancing at me. The Northern line is cooking me in my oversized shirt and Carhartt jeans, a true UO pinup star, and I'm thinking which of us will break first? Spoiler, it's me. He has no idea what thoughts are feverishly going through my head.

I decide the perfect time to chat is when we both get up, if only I can snag his eye first. Casually ask him as we get off together. Because, naturally, in my head we are both getting off at the same place.

The carriage is practically empty around us. It's a perfect setting, no witnesses. We reach Clapham North, only one stop from Stockwell now where I need to change for Vic. Neither of us move. He's sat down now and his head is bowed, eyes closed. I've been trying to catch his eye with a smile for two stops, and now the doors are opening and the lady is saying Stockwell, change here for...

He doesn't get up. Doesn't get off. Shit. That was my moment to engage! I don't move to get off as the other tube-travellers shove past me. We're always rushing, aren't we? Anyway, my little legs stay stuck. I don't want to lose this opportunity. What if he's the love of my life?

"Hi!" I say, awkward. I am bent over him with one bag in each hand, and he doesn't hear me.

What does get his attention is the woman barrelling into me in her desperation to get off before the doors close. She has at least twenty seconds, but she clearly isn't one to gamble. Or double-check her changes on Citymapper.

She sends me tumbling into him, and, because of my bags, onto him. Well, this could be cute too, right?

He takes out his headphones to my chorus of sorry sorry, I'm so sorry.

"It's fine, are you okay?"

"Yes! Good!"

He nods. The headphones are on their way back in. He has wired ones instead of airpods, so hopefully he's at least, like, twenty-three?

"Sorry, excuse me,"

He looks up, confused. What more could this chick want?

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Uh. Ok?"

This is clearly my pick up line, I realise now. At least it's unassuming. And it has a 100% success rate, too.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

Tube boy perks up at this significantly. Maybe he can feel it coming, the compliment. Has anyone ever asked for his number before? How often do men get asked for their numbers? I was willing to bet I was the first. And I got his number. I awkwardly got off with him at the next spot and when he asked where I was going, was unfortunately honest.

"Stockwell!" I say, serial killer smile at full whack.

(I'm not a serial killer, but I bet the adrenaline rush made me look like one).

"...Stockwell?"

Given we passed this stop, just now, together, his confusion is valid. I explain how I just really wanted his number, and he finds it cute. I shake his hand (don't ask. Honestly don't. I've had enough) and head back to Stockwell. Mission accomplished.

It turned out, rather quickly, that gorgeous tall suited Tube Boy was in fact a raging alcoholic. He sent me photos and videos of him drinking literally daily. We never made it to a date, but followed each other on Instagram with the hope one day we'd find the time.

"Sorry, I'm just not looking for something right now. I'm trying to work on myself."

This, for once, seemed quite reasonable. Tube Boy needed to work on himself, if what he was sending me (ultimately a dishevelled hungover stranger with fantastic taste in jeans) was anything to go by.

A few weeks later it was revealed to me in an Instagram Story (from AFRICA?!) that Tube Boy had aquired a girlfriend. They've since been together over a year, and yesterday he liked my Instagram Story of an outfit that his girlfriend would hate. Safe to say, we are no longer Instagram buddies.

I must admit these two failures did make me think of James. Given that James regularly liked all my posts at the time, occasionally even texted (hoping for what, can you guess?) and often phoned. Notably James had to call me twice, each time, to break through my perpetual Do Not Disturb defences. (Honestly, try it, its addicting).

My third and final attempt at an honest, in person love came at the holy site of the Avalon. If you aren't familiar with the Avalon, it's really not all that exciting. It only features on what I presume to be Gods list of blessed pubs because the staff there love to give me a free drink. Even a free night. One might argue, one too many free drinks.

I digress.

Picture this: the lights are now, the music is predictable, and every person around you of your chosen attraction is, frankly, ugly. Two men who might dress up as beanpoles on halloween have bent down to your ear one too many times. They have also bent down to every other woman with a pulse, hoping for someone to latch on and start climbing their bean-stalks (if you will), Jack-style.

The lights are dark enough, you're drunk enough, and the desperation is... well... high enough, that everyone starts looking plausible.

"How long has it been since you last kissed someone?" My friend asks after attempt #3 from beanstalk.

Too long. Weeks? Even a month?

"Let's not talk about it."

And there, under the light of an overheating discoball, Jacob Elordi-in-saltburn-style-but-with-less-murder, is a beautiful head of hair. Curly, long, brown, attached to a man with a jaw and... well, does the rest even matter? Lovely hair.

He turns his face, and it's pretty. The time has come. Shoulders are thrown back, back is straight, and I saunter over. The confidence is frankly quite misplaced, but you'll find out.

"Hi!"

"Hey!"

A response. Fantastic sign. In my mind's eye, I see us running, hand in hand, along a beach together.

"Can I ask you a question?"

Perhaps even at sunset.

"Go ahead!"

I am blissfully unaware to my surroundings. The girls behind him, for instance. I'm too busy frolicking.

"Are you single?"

He rears back, takes a sip of his drink. I don't notice - that'll be the alcohols work. I assume he is just stunned a woman would ask him this. He thinks I'm confident, suave, slick.

"No-" and the spell breaks "-this is my girlfriend."

He gestures behind him where what can only be described as a demon lay in wait. And, honestly, fair enough.

I'm totally stunted. What does one do with this response? I never considered this might happen. Men actually acquire girlfriends these days?

For the rest of the night, the demon, and the demons demon friends who now know I exist, glare at me. I feel their hatred. Still, fair enough. I'd probably be just as territorial. Boyfriends are a rare breed these days.

Alas, I have returned since to Hinge. Occasionally, after a cheeky match-reset, James pops up. His pictures are the same. He does not think of me. (I know this because I called him and he told me so. Thanks James). I think of everything, all the time, so unfortunately he is included. When my parents were my age, they met on a train platform and had a love that timeless ballads are written about. Given there's only a few months left of the year, it would frankly take a Christmas miracle and perhaps the blood-sacrafice of a few virgins for me to find that kind of love. I wish me luck.

(P.S. anyone know any virgins?)