The Amorphophallus titanum, the largest plant that has colloquially earned itself the name "corpse flower", emits a scent of rotting flesh so strong that it can attract pollinators from miles away. Sometimes I reckon I must also smell like a dead body to carrion feeders. Unless all the single people left in the UK just are like this.

Unless I'm somehow both the corpse and the fly. I might be, based on the way Aizat is looking at me right now.

'Why do you keep asking me questions?'

'Is that... not what you're meant to do on a date?' It is according to Google.

Aziat x-rays me, lips curled. I thought I looked good tonight. Don't reckon he agrees. 'Are you a serial killer?'

'No,' I say, though it's not like I'd say yes if I were, would I? Definitely not in a crowded pub on a Friday night.

On second thought, that might be the safest place: no one pays attention to us with the game displayed in every corner of the room. It's Burton vs Birmingham so it's not like a lot of people give a fuck considering this is Manchester, but there's still enough commentary being yelled at the screens to bury our conversation. I've no idea why Aziat chose a sports pub for a date—he don't seem particularly interested in the game either and all I know about football is whatever Caleb info dumps at me.

Maybe he just wanted enough backup men to pick from when this date crashes. Which is right now.

'Cause that is what I'm getting. This is our third date and I still don't know shit about you. It's giving serial killer. I am not gonna end up in your freezer.'

'I've not got a freezer. I mean, I've got a freezer. I've just got garden peas in there like everyone–'

'Why are you wasting my time? There's no long-term potential in you as a partner.' The verdict strikes a canyon in my chest. Aziat ploughs on before the tremors have a chance to settle. 'Go on Grindr, mate. The whole point of Bumble is that it's for people looking for something serious.'

'I am looking for summat serious.'

'Well, you're very bad at it. All you do is talk about your brother and plants.' Our frustration blooms in unison. 'What the fuck is permaculture?'

'It's–'

'I don't care.'

Aziat runs a hand over his face before his stare spears me. His exasperation resembles the kind I've seen on Caleb's face countless times, but unlike Caleb's hyperbolic acts put on for the sake a joke, Aziat's exhaustion is burrowed deep in his eyes. There's no edge to tug at that'll dislodge the mask into laughter. We've crossed the line where this can be summat to laugh about later.

'Let's go over it, everything I know about you thus far. Your name is Nicolás–' he counts on his fingers '–you're from Colombia, you've lived in Manchester your whole life. That's literally it.

'Could write an autobiography about your brother though. They're coming home from West Country today. He's an artist. It's their birthday text week. They're starting school again in September and you're really nervous about it cause he's been expelled from so many schools before. I'm twenty-five; I don't want kids!'

'I don't have kids.'

'You sure? Cause the only people who are this boring are parents.'

By now, my cheeks are burning so hot I've no doubt the flush is visible even in the dim pub lighting. My life ain't exactly eventful. The fuck am I supposed to talk about, the fifth time I turned someone's computer off and on again this week?

'I don't wanna be that bloke who spends the whole date talking about himself.' Google and Reddit are both quick to warn against that.

'So you've forced me to be that bloke for three dates? I'm gonna get scoliosis from the way I've been carrying these conversations. Honestly–'

My phone rings. I'm not a complete moron; I've put it on don't disturb for the date, but there are two people exempt from that: Cece and Caleb. And this ringtone is specific to the prior.

I thread together apologies as I dig it out of my pocket but Aziat is hardly impressed. He suckles on bitter words before he spits them out. 'You're seriously gonna answer the phone right now?'

I've already got up. 'It's my brother.'

'So let him ring your parents.'

Right. We didn't even get to the whole "no parents" conversation. But I don't have time to go into that now—it's already been several seconds since the call started and I don't wanna test how much damage Cece can manage within a heartbeat.

So I offer Aziat a sincere apology as I accept the call. 'Hiya.' I buttress my voice with a flimsy trellis.

'Where've you got spare batteries? The clicker ain't working.'

'Oh.' Though Cece clearly ain't dead nor dying, I keep weaving through the crammed tables until I find the staircase down to the toilets where the football mania is a little quieter. 'They're in my wardrobe. In my shoebox of five million chargers I've never sorted.'

'D'you also keep your shampoo in the fridge?'

I exhale a laugh. That's just where I shoved them when I moved in and I never thought about it again. Guess it's not the most logical place.

I inspect the ends of my locs as if they might've grown an inch since I last saw my reflection. Shockingly they're the same length, just brushing my waist. 'Did the train go okay?'

'No, it crashed, and now I'm phoning you from beyond the grave.' Cece's voice is so monotonous it's impressive even in Manchester.

'Did ya find summat to eat or d'you want me to bring you food on the way home?'

'I'm fine,' they snap. The rustling from the line mutes along with Cece's breathing. Their grimace is audible. 'Thanks... For offering. Okay, found the batteries. Thanks. Enjoy your scrapbooking.'

They've hung up before I can say owt else.

Would I be the asshole: If I pretend to be on the phone for a few more minutes? Since I'm already halfway there, I go to the bathroom just to avoid returning to the table.

Luckily, going to the toilet in a British pub is about as long as a journey through Middle-earth. Gotta go down ten flights of stairs to the cellar, through a kilometre-long corridor with nowt but a green exit light at the end, and grab a train to the next town over before you find the single loo that's probably clogged by some seventeen year old who decided to flush a condom instead of throwing it in the bin right next to it.

I linger in front of the mirror, adjusting the wooden beads in my locs and untangling my necklaces from each other. When I return to the table, there's no trace of Aizat. Thank fuck.

I eat the olives he left on his plate before I swipe the crumbs onto it and pile our dishes. There's no return trolley so I carry them to the end of the bar, as close as I can get to the door to the kitchen.

The woman we ordered from half an hour ago is still alone behind the bar. I don't expect her to come over but there's obvious recognition in her eyes as they catch me so I wait for her to finish pouring a round of pints. She greets me with a wide smile as she slides the dishes to the counter below the bar.

'You didn't have to do that.'

'That's alright.'

I offer her a smile, already stepping back when she interrupts. 'He wanted me to tell ya that he's going to mither Bumble customer support until they add a rating option just so he can rate ya zero stars.'

I laugh. It's too funny to be hurtful. It's the sort of thing Caleb would love. Then he'd love to take the piss out of me with it for the next three years—Note to self: Don't tell him. I don't need to give him any more material for his skits. At this point, I should be getting half his drag earnings.

The bartender smiles again, not a customer service smile but one that glints in her eyes. 'Don't worry about it. Some people just don't click.' She slides a napkin over the bar. 'I get off at one. I don't need ya to be good at talking.'

With a lingering smile, she turns to the trio who've been waiting to order more drinks.

I stare at the phone number, written in blue ballpoint pen. If it weren't for Cece just coming home, I'd probably take the offer. This whole "no casual sex ever" thing is not working. I should never think with my head again.

For most of my life, dating has gone summat along the route of: we go on a date, we have sex, I think everything is sound—champion even. Until the next day when I phone them and they don't answer. A week later, they'll ring me at one am and I'll go over cause I'm not sleeping anyway and we'll fuck, and I'll think they're the love of my life except the next morning they've conveniently left their phone on silent again.

And it'll happen again, and again, and again, until the fifth time when Caleb threatens to drown me in the canal if I don't block their number. So I'll block their number.

Then I'll meet the next love of my life who turns out to also have no interest in me beyond my skin. And the cycle continues.

So no casual sex. Ever.

I reckoned: I'm twenty-four soon, I'd like to be in an actual relationship. Turns out, easier said than done. Turns out it's much more difficult to keep people's interest without the promise of at least one orgasm to end the night. I didn't have time to yearn when Cece lived with me. When they decided to move to a group home in West Country, I reckoned I'd jump right back into the thrills of love. But let's just say that there's a reason I've never actually been in a relationship despite the number of people I've had sex with.

Here's a trolley problem for ya: You can go on another disaster of a Bumble date OR you can pull a lever to throw yourself under the trolley.

That latter option is starting to get more appealing by the day.

Notes

This chapter title is in reference to the novel Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez.
Amorphophallus titanum: Titan arum or corpse flower. It blooms for only 24-36 hours and therefore emits an incredibly strong smell of a dead body to attract enough carrion pollinators in such a short time. It has the largest flower in the world: it can reach 3.5 metres and weigh 50 kilograms.
Clicker: TV remote control.
Would I be the asshole: Reference to the subreddit r/AITA (Am I The Asshole). Someone shares a story regarding a conflict in their lives and people vote either 'you're the asshole', 'not the asshole', 'everybody sucks', or 'nobody sucks here'. You can ask for opinions beforehand, in which case the post would be WIBTA (would I be the asshole?)
Trolley problem: Philosophical thought experiment. In this book, they're referencing the trolley problem memes. Nicolás is not a philosopher, but he is on Reddit a lot. You can find examples on r/Trolleyproblems.

01: love in the time of tinder

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