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repeat after me: lying to men is not a hobby
A V A
It is fundamentally againstmy morals to tell a man he’s funny.
For starters, he might believe it.
And if he does? He might take it upon himself to try stand-up comedy.
This is, incidentally, how I’ve found myself folded onto a too-small cracked plastic chair at a club in North London, watching a man I met on Hinge tell jokes into a microphone with the animated cadence of someone raised amidst the YouTube furore of 2013.
As always, there isn’t enough space for my legs, which means I spend most of Harry-from-Hinge’s set trying to rid myself of the pins and needles radiating from my toes to my left calf. When a violent squeak of microphone feedback jolts me to attention I look up to find Harry attempting a final bout of crowd work, before ending his set to lukewarm applause. Once the lights have come back on, we move to the bar for after-show drinks and I push my shoulders back, steeling myself to play an exhausting game where I pretend to care about this near-stranger’s life.
Flirting, I’ve realised, is just small talk with an ulterior motive. I channel all my years of experience working in customer service; feigning enthusiasm when he mentions an obscure comedian I’ve never heard of and asking him questions that I try moderately hard to listen to the answers to.
‘You have such a unique perspective,’ I lie. He’s an Australian living in Clapham. He has no such thing. And he has clammy hands, which is entirely unrelated, but on my mind nonetheless. But he’s tall and hot (arguably the same thing) and if I go home with him tonight at least it won’t be a long journey back to mine afterwards.
All I need from him is one night. One night to satisfy this urge, one night to stomp out the boredom without tipping the scales.
We sit there for a few moments, sipping wordlessly, the silence made even more glaring by the fact there’s vibrant chatter at every other table in the vicinity. I’m not even two drinks in by the time Harry looks across the sticky table at me, apology written all over his face.
‘Ava, I don’t feel like I’m getting much from you. You seem kind of closed off.’ His eyebrows draw together in earnest. ‘I’m just not sure there’s a spark, and I’m so sorry, I don’t want to string you along. I think it’d be best if we called it a day.’
Damn, he took my line.
‘Well that was a colossal waste of time,’ I say, barrelling my way into the flat I share with my best friend, careful not to leave anything on the floor that she might trip on later.
‘The show was good then?’ Josie asks, pausing her podcast and twisting her copper hair up into a claw clip as if she knows I’m about to tire her out. True crime can wait—my dramatics cannot. Relaxing on the sofa in feather-trimmed silk pyjamas, silicone under-eye patches resting on her face, she’s the picture of elegance.
Meanwhile, I don’t need a mirror to know my eyeliner is smudged and my fringe is stuck to my forehead, and after a Tubejourney in the almost-summer heat, sweat has made its perilous way down my back, snaking below the waistband of my skirt. I stomp over to my room, wading through the mess to find some semi-clean pyjamas, settling on a pair of shorts and a giant ratty t-shirt I got at a gig once.
‘You know,’ I raise my voice as I get changed so she can hear from the other room, ‘I think I’ve been operating under the delusion that comedians are supposed to be funny.’ When I rejoin her in the living room I hand her a plastic tub. ‘I got you those fancy olives you like on my way home.’
‘Ava Monroe, you are the love of my life,’ she says, peeling back the plastic lid while I open my crisps. ‘But stop stalling and tell me what happened.’
Josie managed to inherit both her lawyer father’s charisma and her surgeon mother’s no-nonsense attitude. Unfortunately, the only notable personality trait I inherited from my parents was an inability to be on time.
I bypass the sofa and sit on the rug with Josie’s giant black Lab, Rudy, whose paws twitch as he chases squirrels in his sleep after a long day leading Josie around London.
‘The man said he didn’t think we had aspark.Do we really need a spark if all I’m going to do is join him on his lumpy mattress for one night of mediocre sex and then leave his life forever?’ I grab a handful of crisps and shove a few too many in my mouth in one go. ‘I made it very clear I’m not looking for anything serious. And by that, I mean, on my profile it literally says “I’m not looking for anything serious”.’
‘Maybe you’re just so… alluring,’ her mouth curls into a grin at the last word, ‘that when he saw you he thought, “oh my god, if I impress this woman with my side-splitting comedy, she’ll fall in lovewith me and we’ll have one-night stands every night until we die”.’
‘Right.’ My eyes water as one of the crisps pokes my windpipe and I have to wait for it to move before I speak again. ‘And maybe he just ignored what I said.’
‘I don’t understand how you even find these people.’
She wouldn’t, because she’s been with Alina since before we moved into this flat, and consequently never once had to dip her toe in the piranha-infested waters of London’s dating pool.
‘Dating apps are dire right now.’ I open my phone and start to lazily swipe to prove my point. ‘Always have been, actually.’
‘Read some profiles,’ she says with a wave of her hand, settling back against the arm of the sofa as she waits for me to play our usual game.
‘Right, okay. This guy rhymed “geezer” with “Bacardi Breezer”.’ I swipe left.
She shrugs. ‘A wordsmith.’
