Tinder Girl #3 happened. A dinner and cocktails date on the Southbank, stilettos in the cobbles, people watching, Dutch with the bill – I’m getting the hang of this! The night ended with a kiss. Well, the saying goodbye to TG#3 ended in a kiss in the middle of Waterloo. Actually the night ended with me drunkenly falling asleep on the tube going in the wrong direction, doing the “I’ve gone in the wrong direction on the tube” totter of shame across to the other platform, and the next thing I know, I’m in my kitchen eating goats cheese on Ryvita pumpkin seed and rye crackers. Well done Sauvignon Blanc and mojitos. Half the evening is gone, but TG#3 kissed me. She unknowingly kissed her first widow. Ha. Fooled her.
So who is TG#3? She’s a blonde. She’s a femme. She’s a gym bunny. She’s a smoker. She’s the daughter of an actuary and an artist. She’s full of contradictions like me.
Flirts. Players. Both of us.
Because, really, the only one I want to be flirting with is Boy Widower. That’s the biggest contradiction – I’m a lesbian who wants a man in her bed tonight. Not TG#3, not TG#2, not my ex, not my wife. I want him. Fuck. And that, ladies and gentleman, is why I’m awake at 2.15am.
Has being widowed turned me straight?