What is the purpose of Tinder? I found myself thinking as I snatched up my phone for the third time that morning and pressed the little orange flame. As I was merrily swiping away but not messaging any matches, I wondered if this wasn’t just an alternative to tucking up with First Dates and a bottle of Bud?

If I’m honest, treating it like entertainment distracted from the anxiety of actually finding someone. And, thanks to non-existent lunch breaks, the rapid exchange suppressed the knowledge that there were people behind the profiles, moving further and further from the ostensible purpose.

It also appeared to me that for some Tinder doesn’t actually have a purpose other than play and parody. My first conversation went like this:

“Tell me something about yourself.”

“I like cheese.”

“How interesting.”

“That’s very grating.”

“You’re no gouda this.”

I wondered at the person using my fingers, who’d never been good at puns, and had just entered a pun war.

After a series of similar episodes, I agreed to go out with one and prepared some witticisms on the bus (since they usually come in the shower 5 hours late).

We met at the fountain. Flipping a coin, I watched it scrape across the ice colliding with its reflection.

There wasn’t anyone who resembled his picture. So I pressed my fingers into the nerve at the base of the thumb and concentrated on not feeling sick.

When I was 13 I had a peculiar experience. I was at a fashion show on my way to get a drink, shuffling down the aisle over people’s feet. Two blokes at the stage pointed and turned the camera. I only just made it, could not stop vomiting. Since then sometimes this little thought surfaces: “what if you’re sick?”

He formed in the ice, wearing a yellow coat. “What a marvellous hat.”

Since it was the Festival of Light, I asked if he wanted to see the Mystery Plays in the gardens. (It was a contemporary production: with interpretive dance and glow sticks).

Apparently he wasn’t bothered.

“I thought you’d be interested. You studied history?”

“Yes, but ironically… It’s only ideology teaching us there’s such a thing as a master narrative.”

A good point, though I’d have made a case for a Post-postmodern reconciliation of time and space, but decided not to enter into that, because I was going to the Plays whether he was or not.

We walked through the centre, past the vendors and shops with their hollowing light.

I didn’t care that the play bore no resemblance to the original. It was majestic. Ribbons glittered and what looked like death masks stalked disembodied between crocuses.

“You know that ‘mystery’ didn’t mean intrigue? It’s ‘miracle’ or ‘craft’; the plays were performed by guilds. Isn’t that interesting? Etymology has connected an artisan craft with a miracle.”

I smiled. Thought of the chilblains throbbing even in walking socks. Became aware of his heat.

“You look like you’re part of the play in that coat.” I prodded the waterproof.

“Then you must join!” Looking around, he plucked a crocus. I tutted.

“You know”, he stopped and bit his lip. “I’m aware I’m a cliché, but I’ve often thought clichés annulled if you point them out so, here I go… The thing is, I just got out of a relationship”,

“Ah”,

“So I’m not sure what I want, or, really who I am, or—”

I stopped listening and threaded the crocus through my hat.

“Let’s go drink.”

*

Sometimes, keys don’t fit the doors for which they’re designed. This is variously infuriating, unsettling, at times hilarious.

On the fifth attempt, they lurched, finding themselves in a heap.

I asked if he would hold down my hat because it was a northern winter. He did, informing me that I was turning the key in the letterbox.

*

Hats are curious things. It felt more naked than being without. He lifted it like it was made of twigs, and placed it upside down, preserving the edges.

Later, I unfolded myself, hedgehogged, craving coffee. I suspected he’d be gone when I returned. We’d stepped out of language long enough to undress and probably for him it was still a game, just in a different space. And how could it become anything else, if things have no history?

Cloche

He was standing over there by the drying rack

where before he’d fingered a record, and spoke of dissonance.

—He was clasping it with both hands, as if something

captivating like rain welled there

overnight—