Pink Ochre Magazine

His

          She has come-get-me eyes, although I think they might be drawn on.
          “You’re so non-threatening,” she says, slurring a little. “That’s what I love.”
          “Oh.”
          She pulls a face over her Sauvignon Blanc while I try and figure out exactly what
non-threatening means. I had an old aunt. Even she wasn’t non-threatening. Forgot she was
boiling an egg, burnt her house down.
          “Good,” I manage, subtly flexing my guns. There’s no visible improvement.
          We’re sat in a piano bar. Candlelight, paper menus, the sound of smooth jazz
recognisable from commercials for gut-improving yoghurt. I learnt early on that the
impression of class goes a long way.
          I slurp my Vimto and vodka.
          She’s all I’ve ever wanted. Blonde, available… I notice her roots are a slightly darker
shade of blonde, and I wonder why you’d ever dye your hair to be basically the same colour
it already is. It’s a question I’m saving for marriage.
          “What are you thinking about?”
          “Your roots.”
           I can’t stop myself. Ah well, if this blows it, was it ever even real?
          “My grandmother was Swedish,” she says.

          Swedish. I couldn’t point to it on a map, but I’ve seen enough 70s sitcoms to know
it’s a plus. I make a few Abba jokes. She invites me back to her place.
          “They’ve been married for 65 years,” she says, holding a photo of her grandparents.
          65 years?
          “I’ll be 102,” I say.
          And probably still on Tinder.

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Hers

          It was time for a change. This guy is the opposite of the same old men, and it’s not the
worst time.
          “You’re so non-threatening,” I say, and I mean it. Then the wine talks, only it’s using
my voice. “That’s what I love.”
          “Oh.”
          It’s been an hour and I used the L-word. I don’t love him, obviously. But it’d be
awkward to explain that. Wouldn’t it? Am I locked in? Would climbing out the bathroom
window be too dramatic?
          “Good,” he says, then rubs his arm like he’s pulled a muscle.
          We’re sat in a piano bar. There are candles and low light, and I even recognise the
music. He keeps staring at the top of my head.
          “What are you thinking about?”
          It’s a simple question. I make my voice all dreamy so he doesn’t think I’m insecure.

          “Your roots.”
          At least he didn’t spot a spot.
          “My grandmother was Swedish.”
          It’s an hour later, in the bathroom, that I realise what he might’ve been talking about.
It doesn’t matter, he’s moved onto music. He really seems to love Abba, which is odd but
workable. I invite him back to my place.
          He spots a picture of my grandparents – happy, young, in love. I’ve never felt that
kind of stability.
          “They’ve been married 65 years,” I say, and I realise that it’ll never be me.
          He seems to be having a migraine.
          “I’ll be 102,” he says.
          The alarm on my biological clock explodes.

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