And now for Caitríona’s WRITE HERE, WRITE NOW entry ...

The Tinder Wasteland
‘Nice tits.’
Lovely, I think. This young man is clearly channelling early Wordsworth. Or is he more like a young John Keats? I debate sending a curt reply but just unmatch with him instead. I keep swiping and then one biography catches my eye: ‘Undiscovered intellectual.’ Oh my god. He likes Adrian Mole. We must be kindred spirits. Soon I’m staring into space, imagining the first dance at our wedding, Two of Us by The Beatles swirling in our ears. I swipe right and he messages me almost instantly:
‘I like the makeup, very subtle,’ he says. I snort and a woman near me in Starbucks (yes, I’m in Starbucks, on my iPhone with my Mac Book open in front of me. I’m a hideous embodiment of the millennial. Judge me not, dear reader) turns to stare. My profile picture on Tinder is me wearing makeup befitting a drag queen last Halloween.
‘I’m trying to capture the essence of a young Coco Chanel,’ I reply.
‘Je t’aime,’ he types. Dear sweet baby Jesus, he speaks French. He reads. He’s clearly a most tasteful and cultured young man. And now in my mind we’re spinning hand in hand by the Eiffel Tower. Of course, that could never happen in reality. My severe vertigo would make me projectile vomit all over Clem. Yes, Clem. What the hell could it be short for? Clement? Clemons? Yeah, maybe Clemons. His parents are probably huge Bruce Springsteen fans. Simply Clem, though, conjures images of a bloated middle-aged man drinking fucking Merlot and playing golf every weekend. Still, I can overlook the name.
‘French, the language of love,’ I reply. Ooh, I’m getting saucy now. He’s sure to be biting his lip to suppress a giggle at my seductive ways. I’m a temptress of the night, enfolding him in my cloak of passion.
And then something strange happens. My screen goes completely black. I stare at it, aghast. What if Tinder has somehow unmatched with Clem? The love of my life vanished in an instant.
That’s when I see something protruding from the screen. A long, yellowed claw. I peer around the cafe but no one else has noticed. The claw is quickly followed by a gnarled arm with papery skin and a cacophony of bulging blue veins. The arm reaches for my face, grabs me in a headlock, and drags me into the phone.
I’m in a small room, and then suddenly it’s filled with light. There’s Clem. He smiles, but there’s no joy in the smile.
‘Hello, dearest,’ he says.
‘Where am I?’ I ask.
‘Oh, it’s Tinder Wasteland. You got too saucy too fast. It messed with the algorithms,’ he says.
What the fuck is an algorithm? I struggle to recall my Leaving Cert maths classes.
‘How do I get out?’
‘You never will,’ he says, before pulling out a Nicholas Sparks book and proceeding to read. Christ, Nicholas Sparks! He’s not the tasteful intellectual I thought he was. I crumple to my knees and howl but no ears hear me.


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