by Matt Shaw
My favourite conversation opener comes after they put the little plastic stand behind their shopping, allowing you to start loading your goods onto the conveyor belt.
“Thank you,” I said to my potential Miss Right as she placed the stand at the end of her shopping – allowing me to load the microwave meals onto the belt.
She smiled at me.
Manners cost nothing – and that’s why I thanked her for separating our shopping with the stand. I had already decided further conversation would be pointless when I clocked the toddler’s outfit that hung from the back of her trolley, as she passed me in the vegetable aisle.
First I noticed her beauty. Second I noticed her trolley was near empty. Third, with a bitter feeling of disappointment, I noticed the outfit.
When I first noticed her beauty – I imagined what it would be like to walk down the road with her. I pictured the jealous looks from other males; I had something they could only dream about possessing.
When I noticed the empty trolley – I imagined many nights of dining out; romantic, candle-lit meals – gradually going to the finest restaurants when I could trust she wouldn’t waste any of the food.
And then, when I noticed the toddler’s outfit, I imagined what her head would look like on a stake.
“It’s busy in here tonight, isn’t it?” she asked as we stood at the checkout.
“It sure is,” I replied, not wishing to be rude.
Yes, for me, it’s all about the supermarkets – this supermarket especially. I like this store with its friendly staff, nice layout which helps to prevent me from wasting precious time hunting for the items I am after, reasonable prices and, more importantly, an adequate “own brand”.
Whilst looking for Miss Right, I don’t want to waste the good food. Not to begin with; not on the first few dates. Not until I know she is the one - having said that I don’t want to give her stomach gripes by dishing up some disgusting, cheap alternative.
This supermarket’s own brand at least tastes a little like the real branded goods they are attempting to substitute. I remember trying this alternate brand, once, that looked like cat food even before you emptied it onto the plate. My then-date didn’t finish her meal; complaining that the mere sight of it put her off. I couldn’t argue with her, as much as I hate people wasting their food. It did look disgusting. Even so, I didn’t offer her a pudding.
You don’t get pudding until the main meal is finished.
The goods on the conveyor belt move towards the cashier’s scanner as the lady in front of me packs the last of her own loaded bags into her trolley and walks off.
“You must eat hundreds of these,” said the pretty cashier as she scanned through the first of the own-brand microwave meals.
This particular store’s own brand is somewhere between “too cheap” and “too expensive” – just right. It looks good, it smells good. It’s the perfect substitute to serve up until you know they’re the one and then, when you’re confident they are, and they’re already thinking you’re Mr Perfect – you surprise them further by getting out the good food.
The Birdseye Turkey Roast.
Tonight is date number two.
She hasn’t earned Captain Birdseye yet.
Soon, I hope, although truth be told, I don’t hold out much hope.
I found her on the internet… managed to entice her out on a date without even needing to set up a proper profile.
2
SEVEN FIFTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY-THREE SECONDS. I can’t go in yet; we agreed eight o’clock. I don’t want to appear too keen. According to some random dating sites I found, ideally I should knock on her door about ten minutes late.
‘Fashionably-late’ I think they call it.
I wonder, at what point does ‘fashionably-late’ just become downright rude and insensitive to peoples’ schedules.
It doesn’t matter.
I’m not sitting in the car for another twelve minutes – it’s cold and I’m hungry. Just a couple more minutes and then I’ll go up and press the doorbell. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with just being ‘on time’. If anything, I think it’s more polite and helps to set me apart from other men – the ones who go around believing they are the alpha males.
“Peter? Is that you?”
I look out of the car window – she’s stood in the doorway waving at me. I wonder how long she’s been there for. I wave back and smile. Do I still wait the final minute, I wonder.
“Are you coming in?”
I guess not.
She walks down from her porch, towards the car – beaming me a smile that makes me forget about the awkwardness of the first date. She’s prettier than I remember. A split second’s moment of weakness makes me question whether I purchased the right brand of meal or not. Maybe she is worth the Captain.
I climb out of the car.
“What were you doing?” she asked.
I can’t think of a lie.
“We said eight. It’s not quite eight yet.”
She laughed.
“Did you get the take-away?” she asked, peering into my car.
“Take-away?”
“The food, you said you’d bring some food.”
“It’s in the boot,” I walk to the boot and pull two carrier bags of shopping from it.
“Well, come on in, it’s freezing out here!”
She leads the way to the comfort of her house.
“What did you get?” she asked.
I presume she is talking about the food, “Some microwave meals.”
She laughed as she stepped into her house before turning and holding the door open for me, “Microwave meals?”
“Microwave meals,” I repeat.
Peter - the broken record.
She laughed again, “Really? Microwave meals?”
I held the bags up so she could see I was being serious. My heart skipped a beat as I realised that, maybe, she might not have a microwave. Impossible. Everyone has a microwave.
“Oh, okay,” she says. “Microwave meals it is. To be honest, I’m glad you didn’t get us a curry, I had a terrible feeling you’d bring curries.”
“I don’t eat curry.”
Dirty food.
I don’t eat the edges of any meat product. The edges, to me, are the dirty bits. I don’t eat things that I don’t perceive as being fresh, like packet sandwiches. If I am to eat a sandwich, I need to see it prepared in front of me - partly to ensure the ingredients used are fresh and edible but also to ensure there aren’t any foreign entities put in by bored workers in the sandwich shops.
I believe curry is made, mostly, from edges that no one else eats. I believe the ingredients aren’t as fresh as they should be. I believe curry to be the dirtiest of foods.
She took the bags from me and lead the way to the kitchen, “Where are the boxes?” she asked as she peered into the carrier.
“I left them at home.”
“Home? How will we know how to cook them?”
“I think I can remember how to cook them...”
“Why on Earth did you leave the packaging at home?”
“I didn’t want to clog your bin up with the boxes. They’re quite bulky.”
I also didn’t want her to see it was the cheap brand.
She laughed again, “Has anyone ever said you’re not right in the head?”
I smiled at her.
“Once or twice,” I replied.
“Well, after you,” she said as she pointed to the microwave in the corner of the room. I took the bag from her clammy hands and approached the microwave.
“Didn’t you want to sit and have a drink first?” I asked.
That was how the dates normally went; enter the house, sit down, have a drink and a bit of a chat, get to know each other and then continue the chat whilst eating our dinner. I often found that starting with dinner, before getting into the swing of conversation and the awkward first few minutes of getting to know each other, lead to more silences or
pointless small talk.
“Sure,” she said as she walked through to the lounge. There was no invitation to follow but I let her lead the way regardless. She sat down on the sofa in the corner of the shoddily decorated room and beckoned for me to join her by patting the empty space next to her.
I chose the chair opposite. A slightly disappointed look falls upon her face.
“How’s your day been?” I asked, not really interested but trying to get start some sort of conversation that will hopefully form into something more worthwhile.
“It was okay,” she replied.
And, just like that, my dreams of an intellectual exchange were dashed.
“So why did you bring microwave meals, anyway? I have to confess I was expecting something a little... well... a little more take-away based,” she asked.
A fair question, I suppose.
“Have you ever been on a date, which involved food, where the meals cost loads but you were too nervous to eat anything?” I asked. I’m not nervous, but in my dating days, I’ve found that some girls like to see a new age man - a guy with a sensitive side and yet who knows how to act like a man when the time is needed.
“You’re nervous? That’s so sweet.”
See.
I hope you’re writing down these hints and tips I’m giving you.
Peter - the Romantic.
She continued, “You don’t have anything nervous to be about.” With that, she got up and walked over to my seat and sat upon my lap. “I’ll look after you.”
I went to open my mouth but didn’t get the chance to say what I wanted to say before she was kissing me, her tongue deep in my mouth in an action that can only be described as ‘just like a washing machine’.
I’m glad I had that mint before I came out.
And yet, I wish she had taken the time to have one.
Thankfully, she stopped, “Are you still nervous?”
Nervous - no. Feeling slightly sick - yes.
“That was a nice surprise.”
Peter - the fucking liar.
“We could always skip the main meal and go straight to dessert,” she suggested. A suggestion, I won’t lie, that repulsed me. I didn’t even have to cook her The Captain and, yet, here she was offering me her cunt. I wonder, if it’s that easy, how many other people have had the same opportunity.
This isn’t the girl for me.
“Okay,” I said as she leaned in to kiss me again.
The plan was - get upstairs, fuck her, fake an orgasm and get the hell out. I reckon I can get that done quicker than I can prepare the microwave meal (and wolf it down) and, as she started to unbutton my shirt, my mind wondered to the decorating duties that waited for me at home - especially now I knew I’d be home in time to carry them on tonight.
* * * * *
Never be nasty to someone you’re dating (in the beginning).
You may think they aren’t the one for you but, if you’re unlucky, they could be the only one you are able to hook as you cast your rod into the sea trying to snare that perfect fish. If you’re nasty to them, they won’t want to see you again leaving you without options for future, shall we say, liaisons.
I left that date with a soft kiss on her cheek and she’s probably sat at home now wondering when my next text will call out from her mobile phone.
The poor girl has a bit of a wait.
That’s not to say the text will never get to her - it’s just I want to see if I can do any better first. If I’m desperate, it’s always nice to have a safety net, no matter how flawed they are.
Flip side of the coin is, if you do find someone else - someone to replace them - by all means, get them out of your life as quickly as you possibly can - for two reasons - the first being you don’t want them in the background potentially getting in the way of your new love and secondly, I’m not a monster, it’s not fair to lead them on when you know, deep down, that you don’t want to be with them in that way.
So follow the golden rules;
1) Use them until you find someone else.
2) Find someone else and then send a ‘it’s not you, it’s me‘ text message.
3) Change your number if necessary.
4) Repeat as above until you find your perfect lady (or man - I’m not here to judge).
I ignore my mobile phone vibrating through another text message as I continue to paint the lounge wall a nice, bright white colour. I want this house to look perfect by the time my girlfriend moves in with me; absolutely perfect.
A mirror to the life that we’ll lead.
A smile creeps across my face as I allow my mind to start thinking of all the things that could be, between myself and my new partner.
I can’t wait to meet her.
Another text message snaps me from my thoughts of happiness. Another text message! I laugh as I pull my phone from my pocket; she is a keen girl. I like the keen-ness, it means there is more chance of them being likely to stand by you, through good times and bad times. When a girl is happy to see you it’s nice but you still have to work hard to keep her happy. When she starts off being keen, with text messages and phone calls and such like, you can relax a little - you already have her. You don’t have to work as hard.
I press the enter key on my mobile phone, unlocking it and illuminating the screen and the latest message that’s waiting for me.
“I had a nice time 2nite but dont think we are going to go anywhere. Sorry.”
Hmmm.
I flick through to the second message:
“U left your microwave meals here, did u want 2 collect them?”
Not quite sure how to reply to that. I would have collected them if they were The Captain but, as it is, I think I’ll let her keep them.
Looks like I need to go shopping again...
3
I used to be happy.
I used to live life to the full.
I used to be with someone - someone who I shared everything with.
Someone that I loved dearly.
But things change.
We changed.
She changed.
I changed. I can’t tell you what I changed into but I don’t like it. I don’t like who I have become. I don’t like who she turned me into.
She.
Her.
The one time love of my life. Things started off brilliantly between us - always laughing, always joking and having fun. She made me so happy and, for a time, I thought I made her happy. I was wrong, though. I didn’t make her happy. I couldn’t have. If I did she wouldn’t have done what she did and I wouldn’t be alone now yearning for the laughter that we once shared.
I hate her.
I hate her and yet she’s with me on all the dates I go on. In my mind I’m always comparing the new ladies to her. Are they as funny as she was? Are they as pretty? Then, when I finally do meet a lady that I like, she’s in my mind again - will this new lady cheat and trample on my feelings like my last?
I can’t have that happen again.
I won’t allow it to. This time I’m going to be sure that we are meant to be together. I’m going to be one hundred percent sure of their feelings and then stop any outside interferences from getting between us; the perfect couple.
I just didn’t realise I’d have to meet so many women to find the perfect one for me and I’m starting to feel like a lost cause now - there are no women out there to whom I am suited. Who knows - maybe I’d be better off alone.
No.
I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to live in isolation. I want to find my princess. I want to find the love of my life. The Real love of my life. Not some whore playing make-believe, like my ex. I want it for real. I can’t stand the idea of not finding her.
I can stand the idea, even less, of finding her and losing her again but that won’t happen this time. I’m putting things in place to stop that from happening again; putting things in place to keep us together - forever.
Not that it matters. I sit back, in
front of my computer screen, with my emails loaded up. See, it doesn’t matter what I put in place to keep us together - they’ll be no ‘us’ if I don’t get any replies from the various dating websites I’ve allowed my incomplete profile to remain on. Maybe I should fill in it properly?
I tried to keep my profile fun, light-hearted and informative - enough information and jokes to try and snare the sort of woman I could love... not that I’m fussy. I like most women.
As long as they have a pulse, I’m good.
Good sense of humour is essential, though. She must be able to make me laugh and to laugh at my jokes. Look at me being picky. Look at me with my empty inbox - maybe I should add photographs and fill in the rest of the boxes that I couldn’t be bothered with. After all, I’ve filled in some of the boxes so maybe I’ve already crossed over to the ‘desperate’ territory which I was trying to avoid by only semi-filling it in...
I turn my computer off .
Is there even any point in continuing with the house, I wonder.
I’ve been told, before, that you only find love when you stop looking for it. All the time you seek it, it remains elusive but I don’t believe that. How can you find it when you’re not looking for it? Surely, if you’re not looking, you miss all opportunities that may be presented. I’ll keep looking.
Mental Note to self - look into the dating sites with the monthly subscriptions. Maybe I’ll have more luck on those ones? Maybe I only get bad luck, and meet the wrong women, because I’m only half-heartedly using the free sites.
Maybe.
I’ll think about it.
* * * * *
“Did you need any bags?” asked the pretty cashier.
“Yes, please.”
I needed bags, I just didn’t need any of the shopping that I was gearing up to bag and pay for. I only needed a pint of milk. A pint of milk and then I saw her. The cashier lady - sitting at her till, smiling the most beautiful smile to all of the customers who I watched her serve.
