№501: Trying

I showed up to work tired, but not that hung over.

I sit at my desk and stare at the boring shit I need to get done, and I do the boring shit I need to get done.

I leave early because my boss is away spending money with his rich wife and on his rich daughter and not on his son, who he is more alike than either would care to admit.

I take my things, and I go to the bar near the office: not the closest one, the next one along, and I wait.

The girl I’m meeting shows up.

We met on a dating app and she matches her photo.

She has purple circles under her eyes. She’s thin. She has on a black dress and boots and an ancient denim jacket, and looks like she might’ve been made in the clothes with how well they seem to fit.

We sit at the window and drink beer.

We have things in common.

I want to reach out and touch her hand but I don’t.

We laugh and flirt and she tells me she likes aquariums, and I tease her about liking aquariums.

She tells a long story about her drunk friend nearly flooding a hotel room in Iceland or Finland or somewhere, and it’s funny and well paced and I’d like her to tell me more stories.

I don’t kiss her goodnight.

I realise I’ve forgotten how to do that, or when to do that, or what to do, and I do maths on the train home and realise it’s been two years since I’ve kissed anyone.

I wake up the next morning. She’s texted me.

I wait for what feels like enough time to not seem pushy or needy — an hour or two, and reply, hating myself for waiting at all, but not wanting to reply to every message annoyingly quickly. The balancing act is unpleasant.

A man on the bus to work asks me to dinner and I say no.

He calls me a word I’d forgotten about, and when I get off I can feel his eyes on me. I wonder if he might climb out the doors after me.

The work day is punctuated by checking my phone, and ensuring each time I reply, the gap between my correspondence does not shrink or grow dramatically, but also that it is not so precise she’ll sense I’m trying to be consistent.

When I get home I don’t drink for a while.

I go for a walk.

I lie in bed, think about masturbating, but read instead.

The following day is Friday and I call in sick, though I really just can’t think of anything worse than listening to the receptionist complain about how she’s been given too much work by our boss or be subjected to her long, duly self-interested stories about her fantastic husband and admittedly cute baby.

So I’m lying in bed trying a new dating app my father suggested when we were on the phone.

‘I saw it on the news,’ he explained proudly. ‘It uses algorithms to match people — not much chop if you think about it, certainly not machine learning, but it’ll get you out of the house.’

My father was being modest — he bought the very first iPod, and upon catching a flight, was the center of attention as the other flight guests marveled at how such a small white brick could contain so many songs.

I answer a series of 50 questions that range from fun and exciting, to painful.

Your partner surprises you with a weekend away, you are:

a) very happy

b) happy

c) indifferent

d) annoyed

e) very annoyed

They are, for the most part, questions to simulate small talk without the bit of small talk that makes small talk interesting.

I knock out twenty or thirty multi choice questions, then move on to written responses that other single people in your area can see when they browse your profile.

I write about my job.

I write about my parents.

I do not write about my father.

I reach the final question.

What brings you joy?

I reach forward, about to start typing, and hesitate.

An answer was there immediately, of course: I like rainy days in the house with a book; I like afternoons at the pub with the two friends I have that I can properly stand; and I rather love the feeling I used to have when I was with her, which is why I’m answering questions to begin with.

But nothing is forthcoming.

No words reach out from my fingertips.

I just look at the black bar that goes on and off, waiting for me to explain what makes me happy.

I close the app, shower, collect a bag with to books and walk to the bus stop.

By the time the bus arrives in the city, it’s well into the afternoon.

I find a pub that has no one in it and read.

Only two boys approach me while I read, and one of them is asking if I am using that chair, and I am not using that chair, thank you for asking and no worries at all.

I get home at eight, drunk, and my brother is out.

I sit with his wife and watch master chef.

She swings her legs out over me and lies across the couch.

Her thighs are warm against mine.

We watch TV and drink wine and I wish my phone was in arm’s reach, enjoying the thought of writing all of this out to shut up the little blinking bar that wants me to prove to a stranger that I am, in fact, normal, and love walks on the beach and the footy and I’m a really down to earth type but I also love to dress up and go out on the town.

We’re standing in a chain restaurant in a strip mall in the middle of the country however many years later, and it’s not until she touches my hand and squeezes that I realise I’ve been looking at the menu, and not moving.

‘Sammy?’ she says quietly.

I turn and put my arms around her, and bury myself in her warmth. Her hair smells like burned leaves and yesterday’s shampoo and she lets me crush her into me.

‘Fucking iPods,’ I say. ‘Only cunts like iPods.’

‘Yeah, two Cahunas, with a salad,’ she says to the cashier, disentangling from me.

The man behind the counter nods and taps away at a screen.

‘Cahuna Burger meals?’ he says without looking up.

‘Yes, please,’ she says.

‘Dad was an Apple hipster,’ I offer, hoping to clarify.

‘Just on card, pay-wave is fine,’ she says. ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’

‘He had a Macbook that’s so old it didn’t even have VGA.’

‘What’s VGA?’ she says.

‘Like HDMI but way older.’

‘No shit.’

‘Receipt?’ the man says.

‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘Have you spoken to your brother yet?’

I shake my head and check my watch, willing it to be time for us to get out of the car in a few hours and repeat our nightly road-trip ritual.

‘Do you think he’ll show up?’ she says.

‘He’s always done what he thinks is best, but… maybe, I’m not sure with his kid and everything, hard to say if he could make the time.’