An oddity of modern dating appears to be the way in which traditional forms of lovemaking have translated into the modern world.
Hot Richard and I don’t speak for several weeks, and then we begin to spar, as though unable to keep away. Tense. Argumentative. Frictional. We are taunting one another, feeling the space around our missing love.
It begins when I message him to wish him a happy birthday, and he sends me a link to ‘Here Comes the Rain Again’ by the Eurythmics. I respond, in the only way I know how, with a lyric:
“Talk to me, like lovers do”
His response comes quickly, as clear as it is as incomprehensible:
you are a lover
Days later, on a Saturday morning, he messages me again,
“I have subscribed to the Times, this is marginally more productive on 6am on a Saturday than reaching for the half finished champagne bottle”
My response is a reaction to the factual nature of his message,
“It is bitterly cold this morning”.
He responds, “It is beautiful.”
Days pass, and then I message him, “Frost and sunshine,” to which he responds:
“And beauty,” I reply
More days pass, life goes on, we move inside our own worlds, and do not contact one another. And then again I am sitting at my desk and he sends this message,
“There’s a great luxuriousness in crunching across a fine frosty lawn at night when it’s still and there’s stars.” I reply a few hours later,
“Ideally with a lover, and kisses,” to which he responds:
“Wet licks turn cold.”
Hot Richard really holds a grudge against me, I guess. I reply,
Today I message him and say,
“It’s my birthday. Meet me tomorrow.”
I don’t expect a response to that message for another few weeks.