It Was Meant To Be

"It's not meant to be," she said.
"What isn't?" I asked.
"Internet dating. You know, it's forced, artificial..."
"So you prefer to bump into someone at the next table in a Starbucks, or in front of a painting at the Tate, or around the garden at a party? That's more real is it?"
"Yeah," she said.
"And how is that working out for you?"
She didn't answer.
"The fact that two people meet on-line doesn't make it any less real," I said. "Maybe it's just meant to be that they meet on-line."
She paused. "Well, you haven't met anyone on-line yet...?"
"Maybe it's not meant to be," I said.

Forging Pseudo-Medieval Poetry

So, I was in Tate Britain and there was a nuclear mushroom cloud made out of stainless steel pots and pans.
It was big, it was impressive, it was shiny.
Technically arresting, I wasn't sure what it meant or what it was supposed to mean and I didn't really care.
Round the corner there was a painting, The Death of Chatterton, I'd seen it before and it had held my attention then just as it did now.
A precocious talent, Chatterton wrote poetry and -even more arrestingly- he forged pseudo-medieval poetry.
Wait a minute, he forged pseudo-medieval poetry? That was never mentioned to me as a career option.
Chatterton committed suicide aged 17 rather than die of starvation so I guess forging pseudo-medieval poetry didn't pay much back then.
It probably still doesn't pay much today but, sitting at my Formica desk staring at Excel spreadsheets day in day out, it feels like something I should look into.

Stay Deep

A friend of mine was telling me story. It was about this girl he met long ago.
He was at college at the time and she was a visiting student. She came from America.
They met and they clicked; you know, they connected. They spent long hours talking about ideas and literature and life.
But they didn't get involved. She was going back home in a short while.
Before she left, she gave him a book. Inside she wrote Stay deep.
He kept the book. He graduated, got a job, got married, had children. The book stayed on his shelf.
Then it all went pear shaped and got ugly. He had to move out, start over, start again.
As he packed the book, he looked inside. The page had been ripped out. Go figure, he said.
I thought about it. Something he thought deep was superficial, and the superficial had been threatened by the deep. The page may have gone but the message stayed with him, stayed deep inside.
I told him it was a crap story.

Date

She was telling me about Chile.
We were sitting in a restaurant, alongside the canal. A candle flickered on the table.
She was telling me about her travels. She had been to a lot of places.
I watched her face in the candlelight.
She was telling me about Libya.
I won't deny I thought about it. After all, she was pretty, smart and interesting.
I thought about what it would be like to kiss her.
She was telling me about Cyprus.
But I couldn't see any travels with her. I just couldn't.
Damn it.
It was a shame. But, then again, she did talk a lot...

I Miss Her Touch

"I miss her touch," he said.
They had recently broken up. Or she had with him. He had started the conversation and she had ended it. He had asked if something was wrong and she had ended the whole thing.
"It was like electricity," he continued.
We were in a pub. We were talking it over. I was there to offer support or whatever the hell it was I could offer.
I looked at him. "I'm sorry..."
He stared at his pint. "It hurts," he said.
I traced the scratch in the tabletop with my finger and thought what a bloody minefield the whole thing was. We know we could get blown up but we still head out there because it makes us feel more alive.
We finished our pints and drank another round. Then another. We drank until we could forget everything for a little while.