I’ve conceded. Feckin’ Fecker isn’t going to contact me again. I’ve stopped checking my phone in case he has sent me a message, any message at all. I’m not quite ready to delete his number from my phone and I can’t say that I’ll never pimp at his handsome face on Facebook again, but I’m getting there. But I need to give myself a chance – After all, it has only been 18 days and 10 hours since I have seen him last (not that I’m keeping track or anything). Looking back, I can see that his assistance on bringing nice wine on our date, was his premeditated way of issuing me with an alcohol soaked P60.
The fallout from writing the feature about online dating in The Irish Examiner continues. Guys joke that they would be afraid to ask me out in case they appear in my writing and I neither neither confirm nor deny that possibility. I am accused by a keyboard warrior of being a ‘man hater’. Instead of ignoring him, I reply, trying to justify myself and barely sleep that night. I try to conjure up all of the positive feedback to the forefront of my mind, but the nasty comments have caused me to question everything that I do and who I am.
I distract myself thinking nicer thoughts. I can remember what The Creative was wearing and what he was doing the first time we met. It felt like meeting an old friend. I can talk to The Creative about anything and I fill him in on my dating adventures, amongst other things. He tells me that I’m ‘a babe’ and that I shouldn’t have any trouble meeting someone. When I am in his company, random strangers mistake us for a couple, although we barely speak. I ask him if he will come back in another life and marry me. He says that he will. He thinks I’m joking, but I’m not.
As I type, a message pops up on my phone. No, it’s not Feckin’ Fecker. Sure, I knew that before I read it. It’s from I’m Starving. I haven’t heard a dickey bird from him, since he let me down on our dinner date arrangement last August, other than a sheepish text the following week to say he was sorry, siting ‘Dutch Courage’.