When we’re not trying to meet the daily Keep Writing Challenges set for us during lock down (51 days and counting), we are writing every month in the 12 Short Stories in 12 Months challenge. Both work along the same lines. A prompt and a word count, with a strict deadline. Since I have already dealt with the topic of online dating in Holding Back the Years , which is non-fiction, I thought I should share my fictional version which I wrote for ‘Not my Type’ in 1200 words.
“Not my type, no, definitely not my type, eew, nooo! not my type…”
Swipe, swipe, swipe.
Melanie despaired of ever finding a match.
“Why am I even doing this online thing, anyway?” she directed the question to her cat, Misty who held infinitely more appeal for her than the men she saw – short, tall, bald, hirsute, fat, thin, clean shaven, moustachioed – the gamut of masculinity staring out at her from a phone screen in various poses, astride trophy motorbikes, or on ski slopes, or crossing the finish line of an endurance race (‘I’ve still got it!’ the pictures screamed)
“What’s with these boys? Must they puff out their chests, fluff up their plumage and strut their not very attractive stuff and think we’ll all fall for their lame ass profiles?”
Misty purred.
Melanie’s thumb hovered over the next picture. Nice looking. She wondered…she would have to take the plunge sometime and given her long working hours, general lack of social life and introverted nature, Tinder seemed to offer an expedient solution to an intractable problem that had dogged her for five years since her divorce. Singledom.
The app pinged and to her horror, her picture came up entwined with that of the only man she had selected in months of browsing and swiping. Dan. She went back to his full profile and checked out the three photos. All posed, on his own, with an indiscernible background that placed him everywhere and nowhere. One photo in black tie, looking dashing. In another, the more rugged look, partially unshaven in jeans and a stylish shirt and in the last, casual in shorts and a t-shirt, reclining on a sunbed, sunglasses perched on his forehead.
“Hello, Dan” she addressed her screen. The app pinged again, showing her there was a message – from Dan. She threw the phone across the bed as if it was going to bite her, or Dan was about to jump out at her.
“Misty, what shall I do?” Misty flicked her tail. Melanie reached to retrieve the phone.
Hi Lovely lady, the message read. Short and sweet. Was that it?
Hi yourself, she typed back, before she got cold feet.
What you doing here? Surely a beautiful woman like you already has someone in her life?
Uncertain as to what to make of the off the bat sweet talk, Melanie smiled. He thought she was beautiful!
Well, it’s a long story…she typed.
Will you tell me your story sometime, angel?
When?
Well. I’m out of town right now on a contract so as soon as I get back.
What do you do?
I’m an engineer on the rigs. Weeks on, then time off. Time to spend with you.
When will you be back?
Soon.
I’ll be here. Can we keep talking in the meantime?
Of course, I’m not leaving you now I’ve found you.
Melanie offered her cell phone number and invited Dan to communicate on WhatsApp. She was done with Tinder now and wanted to delete it from her phone. If her few friends or colleagues even knew she was on it, she was sure they would be shocked. It was so out of character for her.
Over the next few weeks, Dan’s messages became more and more affectionate. Only occasionally would there be an out of place remark, or odd question.
When are you retiring? Do you live in a big house?
Both these times, and on a few other occasions, Melanie left the questions hanging, going back to the conversation only hours later. Sometimes Dan got impatient.
Angel, where are you? Are you playing hard to get? I get unhappy when you ignore me!
Then she felt bad and sent him long messages. About her day. About Misty. About how lonely she felt and how she couldn’t wait to meet him. She asked him for more photos.
My phone crashed and I lost all my pics ☹ And I’m useless at selfies. You’ll just have to wait to meet me in the flesh!
She sent him different pictures of herself. And Misty. She sent him snippets of articles, poems, songs, giving so much of herself. He lapped up her messages always quick to reply and always commenting on how sweet and thoughtful she was.
Then this.
My angel, there was an accident on the site today. I messed up bad.
What happened?
A piece of equipment got smashed because one of my guys was careless. It’s going to cost me.
Haven’t you got insurance for things like that?
What kind of question is that? I’m telling you I’m in trouble.
Although taken aback at the reply, Melanie put it down to his stressing about the accident.
I just wondered if you weren’t covered for damage to equipment?
I’m just a contractor, not a company employee. I’m not covered for that.
Melanie bit her lip, sorry for doubting him and concerned about what would happen next.
So, what happens next?
Angel, I’m so worried. They want $100 000 before they’ll let me leave the rig. Can you help me? You know I’ll pay you back. I just need to get back and speak to my business partner and work something out.
Looking back, afterwards, Melanie marvelled at the fact that she didn’t question that if Dan had a business partner, why he didn’t speak to him on the phone, or on Whatsapp, like they did, and resolve his crisis that way.
All she could think of was that their very first meeting the following week was now in jeopardy and that simply was not an option. It was unthinkable after months of sharing, and loving on the phone, that they wouldn’t meet, and finally touch each other. She had an access bond she could use to help him. To bring him to her.
How can I get it to you?
* * *
“So, ma’am, what happened next?” the detective from Interpol asked her gently, as she sat, stunned in the investigation room. After weeks convincing herself she would hear something soon, the realisation of the full horror of what happened hit her and she had reluctantly reported Dan to the police.
“He sent me an account number, with a SWIFT code for a bank in Mauritius. In his name. D. Nolan. At least I think that’s him. Come to think of it I never did know his surname.”
Melanie hid her head in her hands.
“Ma’am I’m sorry to say, this is a common modus operandi. We have a number of cases like yours that we’re working on. Dan Nolan is definitely not his name”
Melanie took out her phone to show the officer Dan’s photo. The man shook his head.
“Ma’am. He is neither called Dan nor does he look like this. These are almost certainly stock photos.”
“He told me he loved me”
“I’m so sorry. They all do. They prey on …women like you.”
Melanie looked up at him. Was he judging her? Another sad, middle aged woman duped by a con artist who skilfully exploited her loneliness. Groomed her to part with over a million Rands.
“If you met the real Dan, ma’am he wouldn’t be your type. I’m certain of that.”
