Any characters are fictional unless based on someone you know, have seen, or just imagined in this short story by Ian Hood
Tinder is the night Tony... TONY had never written one of these before. “But all my mates seem to have more knowledge of what I should put, so here goes.”Tony. Fit, 6ft, city worker, solvent – own franchise! seeks blond, F, 25, GSOH, N/S, athletic and kind for nights in or out. Just right, describes me to a tee – used to play
football (well OK, only on a Sunday when the pub was shut), 6ft (well 5’7” but it’s nearly 6’), deliver milk round the city – so that’s OK and solvent (well, not overdrawn this month). My mates said athletic has a different meaning than ‘goes to the gym’, but I’m not sure what they meant so I didn’t ask.
Carol... I’M Carol and this is my encounter! I remember the day with fondness, I suppose. It’d been a while since Stuart left. We’d been together forever. Then she’d come along. Tall, skinny, celery stick she was, with boobs that entered the room two minutes before she did. couldn’t be natural, had to be a ‘job’. Anyway, I was sick of being alone, so I talked to the other girls in the office, and we (OK, they) decided I should get a ‘profile’. I never meant to go along with it, it just snowballed with me in the middle. No one listened to my reservations about meeting a total stranger. Some weirdo, with expectations of whatever. A vision arose of a video camera, custard and... sorry, could he be odd? Armed with chocolates and a phone, I started to view the swipe right. I finally found one. Typical, two boxes of Roses, two large gins to find only the one. Tony. Fit, 6ft, city worker, seeks blond, F, 25, GSOH,N/S, athletic and kind for nights in or out. Solvent – own franchise. Whatever that means! GSOH – well I have, well, had till she came along and tricked him, the witch. N/S – well, I suppose I could give up if I really wanted. Wouldn’t have started again if not for her and the stress she caused. Athletic – course I am, have to run for that flaming bus every morning since he took the car. So blonde, around 25, GSOH, N/S, athletic and kind – I fit all those, except
24
the blonde bit. All right, I’m not 25 anymore but nearly. Kind, yes, I am definitely kind... not that she would know that. So, I’m brunette, 30+, miserable, smoker, overweight and down on life in general – oh yes, mustn’t forget bitter. But hey, bored now, swipe right.
‘Typical, I thought, only
I remember going into the Piano Lounge, just off the high street about 8.40pm, I was meeting Tony at 8.45pm. He works in the city and plays sport apparently. We spoke on the phone and he sounded OK, but I’d decided to play it cool, although not too cool… hadn’t had a man for ages. I moved towards the bar, looking like what my mam would have called a right “slapper” (the odd gin getting ready hadn’t helped). Maybe I’d gone a bit overboard with my get-up. Well, there wasn’t much of it, and what there was you could say was stretched to the limit. No surprise to be offered a seat and a few drinks. Looking around, I was trying to put a face and body to Tony’s voice. Some fit blokes in here, I thought, hope he’s one of them. A guy came towards me. It couldn’t be Tony though as he’s six foot and this guy was only my height. Typical, I thought, only one seat left at the bar and it was next to me. Still, could have some fun while I’m waiting. So, feeling devilish (thanks to the Gordons), I reached down to adjust my shoe, that’s a view no one will forget. I’d decided to go tarty; Charlie Dimmock was my new hero. “Mind if I sit here?” he said, tentatively “Nope,” came my curt response “Are you on your own?” he said, half -heartedly.
one seat left at the bar and it was next to me. Still, could have some fun while I’m waiting’ I remember that Saturday night we were to meet for the first time. In the afternoon, I nipped into town for some new underwear and a couple of Dutch courage gins. So, G-string, or Bridget Jones knickers? Blow it, new G-string. Ah, maybe not, being a size 18 (or thereabouts) with dental floss round my derriere doesn’t really make for a comfortable night out So, showered, legs shaved and smelling of whatever that tester was, it was time to get dressed. But in what? Tarty, casual, formal? A little voice in my head was screaming: “Go on, I dare you.” So, I did, 33 years old, big and, what’s the word, ‘ample’ tart.
