It was date four and we were in a cocktail bar , a mix of heady spirits daring us to brave this topic. He told me he was relatively new to the apps and that he was only six months out of a long-term relationship. He was 33, owned his own flat and had a clever-sounding job in tech. After dating a carousel of more chaotic types, including a self-employed novelist scraping by on part-time tutoring, an unemployed poet living off family money and a music industry bro with a drinking problem, he seemed like a safe bet.
The topic of our dating experiences came up again the night we almost slept together for the first time. The sheer randomness of having met a man with no context for his life outside of what he had chosen to present on our dates had hit me. Sex was off the cards by this point, but I said he could still stay over, if he wanted. We were in different places, looking for different things, after all.
But when the morning came, he suggested we go for breakfast, and while I was in the shower, he made my bed. Talk of getting breakfast and making beds were, alas, anomalies in my dating experience, and in that moment, both were incredibly sexy. Over the next month, we saw each other a couple of times a week and messaged most days.
It was too hot to stay in London. But after breakfast, he dropped a bombshell. We were sat on the sofa, his arm around me. I was shocked and confused.
Was this a new development? When had he found the time? Which of his evenings supposedly spent with colleagues, with friends, or on the sofa had actually been with her?
