Hear Us Roar | Anthology

121 by @MissLaughALot_

120, Gabi. What's 121 when you've done 120?

Yes, you heard right, 120 blind dates. Not one, not two, not even a hundred—no, I'm the fool that's been on 120.

They were fun at first, especially when Mum picked the guy because he was always perfect on paper and dull in practice, leaving me to liven up the evening with inappropriate jokes and thinly veiled jabs.

In fact, they were so fun that I looked forward to the moment when I met him, a small smile playing on the corners of my lips as our eyes met and I took my seat; the moment when we'd introduce ourselves, my name melting on the tip of his tongue; and, most importantly, the moment when we clicked, when my eyes ignited and the butterflies began to swarm, my body falling forwards in sync with his. I loved when we connected, when everything fell into place, and it just felt right.

But, in the spirit of full disclosure, that never happened.

There was no clicking, no falling, no melting.

Every date was the same as the last: awkward conversation, strained smiles and my calling for the bill before the topic of dessert or drinks could be raised.

So why have I continued?

Why am I about to go on date number 121?

Well, because I have something to prove. The thing is, I don't know what, and I doubt I ever will.

Anyway, tonight is date 121 with the elusive Parker Danby. Alicia set it up this time, the promise of a fun evening with the recently relocated American leaving me with one question.

"Does he know I'm black?" I asked last Wednesday, the two of us sitting in an overly expensive bar near Liverpool street for mid-week drinks. "Because you know I can't deal with another lowkey racist being surprised when I arrive and then talking about his recent trip to South Africa or Barbados or wherever the hell he was when he saw 'more black people than usual'."

That last bit is a direct quote, by the way.

"Or." I continued the tirade. "For him to say that he thought I worked in consultancy, and then when I challenge him as to why I wouldn't, he says something about me being rather on the young side and then takes a large gulp of his drink and mutters the word 'touchy'. Baring in mind he knew I was twenty-five before the date, so my age shouldn't surprise him."

"Okay, Gabi." Alicia laughed, her hand reaching out to pin mine to the sticky table we were seated at. "I get it, but yes, he knows you're black. I showed him a picture and everything."

"And he's okay with it?"

"Why else would he agree to the date?."

"Boredom."

She rolled her eyes and laughed, the last of her long island thrown down her throat as she jumped up and asked if I were ready for another round.

At the time, her insistence on changing the subject seemed a little shifty. Out of everyone involved in my blind date scheme, Alicia always ended up picking the lowkey racists. I know she never did it intentionally, all the men were relatively nice to her, which suggested they weren't racist—hence the preface: lowkey or term LR—but friendship is always easier than a relationship, and when a black woman is sitting in front of an LR for dating purposes, their true colours always shine through. I guess that's why I stopped accepting Alicia's offers for a while. But with nothing to do, and no date lined up, blind or otherwise, I had no excuse to avoid it.

So, now I'm here. Alicia managed to bully me into my best form-fitting blue jeans, the frayed hem grazing against my exposed ankle and my favourite white sweater with a v so deep it leaves little to the imagination. My afro is pulled back tight and wrapped around itself. Alicia even managed to pin me down, her toothbrush and gel going to work on my baby hairs. So, when I catch my reflection in the building's windows, I look exactly how Alicia wanted me to, leaving me with nothing else to do but enter.