After taking a much needed spiritual hiatus from the chaos that is the online dating scene I decided I’d better throw my hat back in the ring and attempt to meet someone before the impending wedding season began. I was hopeful that this was finally the year I would take advantage of my ‘plus one’ option.
Soon after I matched with Patrick on Tinder.
Patrick was a svelte gentleman with dirty-blond hair and slightly on the metro sexual side. His jeans were somewhat tighter than my liking but I figured I could overlook something as minuscule as the size of one’s pants so long as I am pleased with what is underneath.
Patrick invited me out on an unseasonably warm Saturday afternoon in February on a patio for some margaritas and some guac whilst soaking up the inevitably short-lived sunshine.
The date went surprisingly well, and I decided it wouldn’t hurt to bring him back to my apartment I recently moved into to show him my new digs and perhaps another cocktail.
We were sitting on the balcony engaged in a random conversation about astrology when my roommate came out to say hello.
She switch on the lights.
“Oh fuck,” Patrick said.
I glanced at Patrick as he stared at my roommate with a horrified look on his face.
“Well hello,” my roommate said as if she had caught someone with their hand in the cookie jar.
Confused, I awaited an explanation.
“So remember the guy that I was having sex with who told me he couldn’t see me for a long time because had mono and was contagious? YUP. That’s him.”
We busted Patrick’s balls for being a cowardice little shit and he split.
Big city, small world.