Sick cat

We weren’t a good match, I can see that now. Picture him: Tom from Tinder, thirty-two like me, freelance architect dressed in a crisp blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark-haired and handsome as fuck, calmly reading on a tablet when I arrived. Picture me: Malte, Mal for short, ten minutes late, underpaid graphic designer and occasional stand-up comic, wearing an unzipped hoodie over a Joy Division t-shirt and sweaty from rushing down a sunny Dalston street. As I reached his table at the back of the long bar and climbed onto a stool with profuse apologies, he looked at me as if he not only didn’t recognise me, but was vaguely affronted I had the temerity to speak to him.

            ‘I’m so sorry,’ I babbled, shrugging off my hoodie, ‘it was one of those trains where it stops for five minutes between each station so that you can enjoy the view of… nothing… ’ I pulled at the armpits of my t-shirt where it stuck to the skin.

            ‘It’s okay.’ He gave a strained smile, snapped the tablet cover closed and set it aside. ‘Uh, I already ordered a coffee.’

            ‘Oh, sure. I’ll try and get their attention.’ I smiled and glanced over my shoulder. Then pointed to his tablet. ‘What were you reading?’

            ‘Just work stuff.’ He checked his silver wristwatch, then his phone, eagerly jumping from device to device, avoiding looking at me.

            ‘Cool,’ I said. ‘I love reading. I mean, books. Work stuff… not so much.’

            He gave a hum, using his fingers to zoom in on something.

            ‘What’s a, uh… ’ I glanced back again, trying to signal to one of the two drag queens carrying brunch plates and Bloody Marys to groups of rowdy friends. ‘What’s a good book you’ve read recently?’

            I looked at Tom. He frowned and typed on his phone. I looked back at the drag queens, wondering briefly whose attention I would have better luck catching. My armpits itched. The hubbub of other, cheerier conversations rose under the high ceiling against the reggae beat of Carly Simon’s Why.

            ‘Uh… ’ Finally he looked up at me. ‘I don’t read a lot of fiction.’

            ‘Oh. Do you not have time with your job?’

            ‘Yeah, I guess I don’t.’ Back to typing.

            ‘Ah yeah, you mentioned it’s busy. You seem… pretty busy right now, actually.’

I waited for him to pick up on the remark. He didn’t.

            Well, this was anticlimactic. Running down the street all sweaty, just to sit here and talk to a handsome brick wall. I gave a bemused smile. Looked around at the other patrons in the bright space, the brash, pun-filled posters for club nights and drag shows. I wouldn’t normally go for a daytime date, much less at a drag queen brunch. It didn’t exactly feel intimate, or romantic. But this had been his only available time to meet when we’d chatted on the app. He’d seemed all right then. Nice enough, not without a sense of humour. Was he annoyed I’d been ten minutes late? It seemed an unfair thing to get hung up on.

            I looked back at him, at the sheen of sweat on his collarbone as he texted. It awoke a vague horniness in me, and with it an urge to try again, just once before I left. ‘God. Kind of feel like I’m on a date with myself right now. I mean, I like a wank as much as anyone, but that’d be taking it to a whole new level… ’

            ‘What?’ He looked up.

            Of course that’s what got his attention.

            ‘Uh, it was a stupid — I was just — saying dirty words to try and get your attention. Did it work?’

            ‘Oh, sorry.’ He put his phone away with a sheepish smile, an iota of shame finally creeping into his tanned features. ‘I’m on my phone way too much. It’s bad.’

‘No, it’s okay.’ I shook my head. Maybe he’d just been stressed about something. Maybe this could still be a nice time. ‘It’s the… modern condition, or something. I just hope everything’s all right?’

‘Oh yeah, there’s no crisis.’ Again that guilty smile.

‘Well, great.’ I smiled back. Took a breath. ‘You look nice.’

Before he could thank me for the compliment, a drag queen appeared at our side, all kitschy polka dot dress and flowing blond curls. ‘Aaand here’s your cappuccino. Sorry for the wait, love.’ She set down Tom’s coffee and looked at me. ‘Now then, what can I get — oh, hang on, I know you, don’t I?’ Her glittery eyes widened at the sight of me. ‘You performed here once, didn’t you? When we had the open-mic comedy night. You were good!’

            ‘Oh!’ I touched a hand to my chest, smiling from ear to ear. ‘Thank you! That’s so sweet of you to remember! That was, like, months ago.’

            ‘Of course, honey! You were funny.’ The drag queen turned to Tom. ‘He was funny.’

            ‘Really?’ Tom looked from her to me, interest piqued.

            ‘Yes, really!’ said the queen. ‘We should have you back on, babes.’

            ‘I’d love to!’ I beamed. ‘Just put on another open-mic night and I’ll be there.’

            ‘Maybe we will, mmmaybe we will… ’ She shot me a mischievous look. ‘Now, what can I get you?’

            I ordered a flat white, and Tom at the last moment decided to order eggs benedict with smoked salmon. A good sign. He wanted to stay for longer. I didn’t order food; I felt self-conscious enough on dates without worrying about bits of brunch getting caught in my straggly beard.

            ‘So you do stand-up?’ said Tom.

            ‘Yeah.’ I nodded. ‘I told you that when we chatted, right?’

            ‘Oh yeah, maybe you did… ’ His bright blue eyes glazed over for a second. ‘Can you do a joke for me now?’

            ‘Oh, no.’ I laughed. ‘It’s not like, one joke and then another. It’s all part of one big thing. If that makes sense?’

            He gave a hum, smiling faintly. ‘You look so different when you laugh. Your face kind of… brightens up.’

            ‘Oh. Really?’ I smiled, feeling a burst of warmth in my chest, ignoring the implication that my face had looked grim till then.

            ‘When you first got here, I thought… you kind of… didn’t look how I expected.’

            ‘Oh. But you saw my pictures. I look the same, right? I mean, I might need a haircut right now, but… ’

            ‘Yeah, I couldn’t put my finger on it. Maybe it’s your voice?’ Tom frowned and cocked his handsome face. ‘It’s that accent. I don’t think I was expecting it. I mean, it’s subtle, but it’s also like, oh. You’re not English.’

            ‘Uh, no, I’m not. I’m Danish. But I told you that, right?’

            ‘Yeah… ’ Again his eyes seemed to glaze over. ‘Wait. Stand up for me for a sec?’

            I made a bemused face. Then stood.

            Tom ran his eyes up and down my body, in its loose t-shirt and shorts. He nodded to himself. ‘Yeah, that’s it. You’re shorter than I thought. That’s what surprised me.’

            ‘Oh.’

            I sat down again, trying not to hear how ‘surprised’ had sounded a lot like ‘disappointed.’

The drag queen brought out the eggs benedict and my coffee. Soon, the undivided attention I thought I’d won became divided again, between Tom’s food and his phone. The device came back out, vibrating as he held it in one hand and replied to more incoming messages, chewing and nodding at my one-way conversation. By now I’d realised what the problem was. I just wasn’t his type, physically. Too short, too skinny, whatever. I couldn’t deny feeling a little hurt, but you get used to these things. I decided to babble on until I’d finished my coffee and could make an excuse and leave. I talked about comedy, how I was actually performing that night at Mike’s Open Mic in Angel, but hadn’t wanted to invite him because that would have been such a lame thing to do on a first date. I talked about Tinder dates. How this was the first time in a long while I’d managed to meet with anyone off the app, let alone have a chat after matching with them. ‘I mean, I get matches, but then I write to them and there’s just dead silence. Which makes me wonder, have I been going about this wrong? Is the goal just to collect matches? Are they like Pokemons or something?’

            Tom crinkled his nose. ‘Ugh. Are you into Pokemon?’

            ‘Oh, no. I was comparing Tinder to… ’

            ‘Oh, shit, you know what?’ He stood. ‘I have to go.’

            ‘What? Is everything okay?’

            ‘Yeah, it’s just… my cat.’ He waved his phone in the air. On the screen, for a splitsecond, I thought I could see the blue and yellow messages of a Grindr chat. ‘Needs an insulin injection around this time of day. I thought my flatmate would be in to do it, but… he’s just messaged me to say he can’t. He’s out. So I have to go home and do it, like, now.’

            ‘Oh, shit. Yeah, you have to go…. take care of that.’ I leaned back, still somewhat stunned. This had definitely been the shortest, weirdest date I’d been on in a while. And that’s saying something. ‘I didn’t know you had a cat,’ I said as he hoisted his satchel over one shoulder. ‘I love cats.’

            ‘Yeah, they’re great… Anyway, it was nice to meet you. Bye now.’

He patted me on the shoulder and left.

            ‘Bye… ?’

I craned my neck to watch him go. He slipped out into the noonday sun and down the street, past the drag queen sat singing Mariah Carey’s Fantasy in the windowsill, like a siren luring Dalstonites to their doom.

            I looked back at the worn wooden table. The two coffee cups, the finished plate of eggs. Wait. He didn’t pay! I looked back again, but he was gone. Fully gone. Oh, for God’s sake…

            I got out my phone, but didn’t have his number to call, only the Tinder chat. I typed a quick: hey you didn’t pay ??? Then a desperate: Come back? Then a resigned: Can you Monzo me for this later?

I mean, maybe if the date had actually led to anything, I would’ve been happy to play sugar daddy — I was less attractive than him, although not older — but clearly, it hadn’t. A wave of frustration crashed over me as I tucked my phone away. What a perfect punchline to a stupid, disappointing experience. Disappointing like most dates I’d been on in the eight years I’d lived here. London guys never had the time to get to know you. Or maybe I was doing something wrong. Being too much of a clown, with my silly little jokes.

            ‘Did you ask for tap water?’ said a nasal voice at my side. The polka-dot drag queen. ‘Oh. Your friend left?’

            ‘Yeah, uh.’ I cleared my throat. ‘He had to get going.’

            ‘Is that his iPad?’

            My gaze followed hers and fell onto Tom’s tablet, left next to his crumpled napkin. I froze. ‘Oh, shit. Yeah, it is. Oh no… ’

            ‘You can probably still catch him.’

            I got up from my stool, dazed. ‘Oh, but — I should pay first, right?’

            ‘Just go, love. I trust you.’ The drag queen smiled like a good fairy, plucked the tablet off the table and stuck it in my hand. ‘Go get him!’

Somewhat breathless, I thanked her and turned and ran out of the café, onto the street, squinting in the harsh glare of late-May sun. The drag queen in the window kept belting R’n’B hits as I rushed down the pavement, around a Sikh family, two boys on bikes, a group of Hasidic Jewish men, the sprawled legs of a homeless person. Where was he? I looked ahead — there! Tom was stood in his ocean blue shirt and black chinos, ringing the intercom of a door next to the fruit displays of an off-licence.

            I jogged up. ‘Tom! Hey! You forgot this.’

            He looked at me in surprise. ‘Oh.’ Then at the tablet in my outstretched hand. ‘Thank you! God. Thanks.’ With a sigh of relief, he took it and stowed it in his satchel.

            I frowned at the peeling wooden door, the brick façade. ‘So… this is where you live?’

            ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said, staring rigidly at the door.

            ‘I thought you lived in Peckham.’

            ‘Yeah, no.’ His jaw worked nervously. ‘I live here.’

            Static came through on the intercom, then a friendly male voice: ‘Hey, second floor on the left.’

            With a buzz, the door unlocked. Tom pushed it open. ‘Bye,’ he told me for the second time that day.

            ‘Wait, you didn’t pay for your —’

            The door closed.

            ‘— eggs.’

            I stood there. Tried the door. It didn’t budge. I looked at the ten buttons of the intercom. Hadn’t seen which one he’d pressed. Was I going to ring up all of them, asking for someone named Tom to come down and pay for his brunch? No… no, I was not.

            Feeling very hot and very annoyed, I trudged back along the sunny street, into the café. I ducked through the crowd to the table where we’d sat.

The drag queen came back. ‘Hey! Did you catch your friend?’

            ‘Yeah… ’ I slumped onto the stool. ‘He’s not my friend. We were on a date. Actually, I’m pretty sure he left to go for a Grindr hookup.’

            ‘He went for a hookup?‘ The drag queen’s glittery eyes widened with outrage; she touched my shoulder with a silk-gloved hand. ‘But that’s horrible, babe! Why would he skip out on a cutie like you?‘

            I gave a flicker of a smile, happy for the sympathy, even if it was just part of her job. ‘Thanks.’ My eyes fell on the bill that lay curled on the table. Sixteen pounds fifty. ‘That’s not even mine to pay,’ I muttered. ‘He left without paying for his food.’

            ‘Nooo! He didn’t! Oh my gosh, honestly — the nerve of some of these people!’ The queen fanned herself with a camp roll of the eyes, touching my shoulder again. ‘You know what, love? We should just strike this whole bill for you.’

            ‘Really?’ I looked up at her, amazed. ‘You can do that?’             She paused. Then said flatly: ‘No, babe, I can’t. You absolutely do have to pay. Card?’