NIKKI & JOE, CASUALLY | updates every monday

01: love in the time of tinder

            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?