Investigations in Love

2. Romance is dead.

Like all great romantics on a quest to not only understand, but to actually obtain true love, my first step was Tinder. 

I really do not seem to be doing it for any of the cute guys in independent coffee shops, I don't know what to tell you. Possibly because I can't afford independent coffee shop coffee. But how am I ever going to afford it without a job? You see the dilemma. 

'If I didn't speak English, I would think Dilemma was a very pretty name.' I remarked to Violet, who gave me a brief look of disgust but nevertheless shuffled her feet so her legs were flopped further over mine in a display of what some might call affection. Violet's not particularly expressive, so you have to take her mere presence as a sign of love. I have a cat for a flatmate, and a Kat for a sister. Can I work that into a new bio? I think it would pique interest.

Violet was swiping along with me on her phone, because we are Doing Research and definitely not Addicted to the Validation of Men Trying to Fuck Us.
'Why do men think we're going to like them just because they have a dog?' Violet pondered idly. 

'And why would I find it appealing that you've got a bunch of girls in your photos? Like, settle down stud. Go sleep with them if they love you so much.' I scoffed.
Violet smirked and nudged my leg. I rolled into a sitting position and peered at her phone. 'He's cute!' I said encouragingly. 

'Hmm... He looks short.' Violet scowled and swiped on. 

'How do you expect to get any matches if you act like this?' I wailed, 'You're meant to be helping me solve the love crisis of the 21st century!' 

'Social media, capitalism, porn... pick one.'

I giggled, 'the gift has become the curse.'

I tucked my legs under myself as I settled in to try and bring myself to reply to some messages. As dismal an experience as this particular brand of "dating" was, some small and deeply pathetic part of me was inexplicably convinced that the next person I spoke to might, in fact, be my soulmate. As if on queue, a new match popped up.

'What do we think of Frank? Do we love Frank? Should I introduce Frank to my mum?' I waved my phone in front of Vi's face.

She rolled her eyes dramatically. 'Yes! Marry him! Just go on a date with somebody before you die from sex deprivation!'

I pulled a face. 'Don't remind me. I'm too awkward for sex. The government should like, revoke my sex license.'

'Your license to thrill.'

'Violet, I mean it!'

'You're fine! You just hate doing anything you're not immediately great at. And people take getting used to!' She jabbed me in the forehead with her talon of an acrylic nail for emphasis. I cowered away to avoid permanent scarring.

'Sometimes it's good. If I'm drunk, like.'

'You make me so unhappy...' Violet sighed and massaged her temples as I smacked her with a sofa cushion. Just because I'm honest about the fact that every last one of my sexual experiences hasn't been out of a Harlequin romance novel with some buff guy in a ripped shirt "penetrating me with his engorged meat stick until I exploded violently". Not that that sounds particularly appealing either.

My phone vibrated with a new message that I prayed said anything besides 'daphne what do i have to do to get in ur delac*nt'. In fact, it was the wildly imaginative and oft-sought after 'Hey'. I raised my eyes to the ceiling as I begged for mercy from the Love Gods (Aphrodite? Eros? Can anybody hear me?) 

I clicked back to Frank's profile which demonstrated, even if I was too embarrassed to admit it to Violet, all of the arrogance, testosterone and... banter that I did tragically reliably find hot in a guy.

Daphne: Hey, do you want to get a drink with me tonight before we dry text any future relationship between us into an early grave?