Dating in your mid 30s, part II

Who's left?

This is part II of an essay. To read part I click here.

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Dennis 

I am sitting in the backroom of the Sekforde pub in Farringdon waiting for a man called Dennis. 

I like the Sekforde pub, partly because I love all Georgian pubs and partly because they have a big impressionist painting of a woman surrounded by umbrellas. I sip my pint of tap water for the third time and look up at the big clock above the bar. 

Dennis is now running 5 minutes late. 

I have high hopes for this Dennis, mostly, because according to his profile, he makes his own pasta but those hopes are soon squandered when he appears from around the corner. 

He is wearing an off white Polo shirt and tennis shoes and there’s a washed out look about his eyes which makes you question if he sees you even when he’s looking straight at you. 

Also, most tragically, he looked much taller standing next to a pasta machine. 

It must’ve been a tiny pasta machine. 

‘Are you…?’ he asks cautiously. 

‘Yes, sorry. Hello. Dennis?’

‘Yes’, he says and sits down next to me, holding his glass of wine which I find odd. 

He went straight to the bar for a drink when he was already running late? 

We spend most of the time talking about food and good restaurants in London although it would be inaccurate to use the plural here considering that Dennis does not need a support act in conversation. 

He talks about dining in exclusive restaurants that have a minimum cap of £200 per person and getting on impossible waiting lists thanks to his good connections. 

Dennis doesn’t know how it happened but he’s fallen in with a very posh crowd. He used to think his friend Steve was posh for having several houses in the Canary islands but that’s before he met Henry who owns his own helicopter. 

‘Oh cool, a helicopter!’ I break out. 

This is the first thing I’ve said in 15 minutes. It’s an absurd interjection but I’m getting desperate for stage time. 

After another long stint of Dennis’ monologue, I become self conscious in my silence and attempt to interject with one or two diversions on the topic but Dennis talks right over me. He doesn’t even seem to notice. It’s the strangest thing. 

Finally when a lull in the conversation appears, I ask him why he moved to London. 

Dennis explains, whilst moving the stem of his wine glass in circular motions, that his hometown, a little rural town next to Liverpool is filled with misogynists and he simply had to get away, and no, Dennis no longer keeps in touch with his friends. 

‘Why should I stay in touch with someone just because we sat in the same math class 10 years ago?’ he says with a contemptuous curl of his lip. 

Does Dennis think he is better than his working class buddies? Presumably that’s what the fake posh accent and his sycophantic obsession with rich people is about. 

As Dennis goes on, I find myself studying the woman in the impressionist painting. She has round, almond-shaped eyes and an enquiring, curious gaze. 

Could I? No, no I couldn’t. 

Or perhaps, why not? 

Could I date women? 

No, no, it simply couldn’t be done. 

Life was challenging enough without faffing about with a dildo. 

When I tune back into Dennis’s monologue, he is talking about how long it took him to identify the fermentation grades of different wines. 

I suddenly notice a nameless weight on my chest, the restriction of my ovula. 

I need to get out of here, I will, I must. 

I get up with all the urgency of a diva and ‘Oh my God’, and ‘I forgot that I need to be on stage in half an hour’. 

When I mention that I need to get to Waitrose for a tuna sandwich before the gig, Dennis’ chest is taken over by a shiver but he keeps staring at me as if nothing happened. 

Did he just shiver at the mention of a tuna sandwich? 

On my way back to Clerkenwell Green, I receive a text from Dennis.

Dennis would prefer to ‘leave things here’ as he is ‘looking for more of an emotional connection’ but it was ‘nice meeting you’, and I should sign up to get on the waiting list for that South African restaurant. 

‘It is worth the £150 and the 8 month wait’. 

I come to a standstill in the middle of Clerkenwell Green to stare at the text message like someone who’s just been notified of the death of an insignificant acquaintance. 

‘I am looking for more of an emotional connection’. 

I can’t help but wonder. Was it the tuna sandwich that did it? Yes, it must’ve been. And it was a tuna sandwich from Waitrose! 

The audacity. ‘And it’s worth the £150.’

I start drafting a text message to say that ‘the Waitrose sandwich is also worth the £3.5’ but delete it briefly afterwards as I realise it doesn’t make any sense. 

And he dares to text me? Everyone knows that the politest way to signify disinterest after a date is by the simple absence of a text message.

This is the right way to do things. 

Both parties make their intentions, or lack thereof, perfectly clear without laboring the point or causing unnecessary hurt. 

Dennis however wants to reject me in the face of my obvious indifference. 

‘I reject you, I reject you, I reject you’, he is shouting into the void. 

I should feel sorry for him but instead, and for a few minutes only, I detest him with every grain of my body. 

I want to text him back to say that the lack of connection was the least of our problems considering I was not even allowed to finish a single sentence but I’m not the type of woman to send such a petty text message so I block him instead.