Dating apps were an unbeatable game, in Bonnie’s experience. Though a lot of people repeatedly tried to remind her that they weren’t a game, nor were they a means to make new friends, their exclaims fell on deaf ears. She enjoyed the thrill of getting to know new people, of learning all their quirks and the things that made them tick. She often found herself immersed in new hobbies as she fixated on the interests of a brand new human that she’d matched with on tinder or hinge. Brayden from Manhattan had loved horse riding and astronomy; The latter interest had reeled her in within a matter of seconds, the former had lead to a sprained ankle, a week of wearing a neck brace and a special feature on Maggie’s perfectly curated grid as she ripped the shit out of her roomie. Gabriella was from the Bronx, and she’d been an avid fan of tennis, resulting in Ariadne introducing Bonnie to her friend Colin for tips. Gabriella may have ghosted her, but Bonnie had learned hard and fast just how good Colin Nash was on his knees.
Sufficed to say, Bonnie didn’t exactly fit the dictionary definition of a romantic, but she liked being busy. She loved people and the distractions they brought with them, just as she adored the idea of embracing new ideas and environments and cultures, positively obsessed with the concept of somebody liking her so much that they might some day define it as love.
All the same, she was shit out of luck and had a tendency to run her mouth and drive people away. That, or she was prone to getting catfished several times a week.
Today’s date was Roger. He was from London, built like a marble sculpture, and richer than God. He was hot in a way that implied one night with him would shatter her spine and leave her destitute and being fed from a tube for the foreseeable future, and who was she to say no to that? Admittedly, Kian had rolled his eyes immediately upon seeing his profile, the all too familiar singsong of catfish spilling from Missy’s perfect lips, and Bonnie had groaned, stomped her feet, and then promptly begged a nonplussed Rory to shadow her date to make sure he was real and not a slimy, murdering murderer prepping to chop her up to sell her organs to Armie Hammer.
“Oh my God, I’m late. I’m so late. Sexy Hannibal Lecter’s never gonna rearrange my guts if you don’t GET! OUT! MY! WAY!” Bonnie found herself snapping as she came to a halt in front of a group of tourists, the oldest of them wide eyed and clutching her pearls as — presumably — her granddaughter covered her ears, jaw dropping in mortification at every word that had just been screeched in their general direction.
Bonnie kept moving, only sparing a glance over her shoulder to ensure Rory was still on her tail. He was moving at a far more sensible pace — stupid, sexy Irish man and his manly, athletic thighs that had no business belonging to a dweeby sci-fi author — and he wasn’t fumbling around in his jacket pocket for an inhaler the way that Bonnie was. The sharp chill of the Autumnal air had hit her like a bullet train the second she’d stepped outside, an ice-cold ache washing over her lungs, tightening in her throat as she pushed through crowds of irritable New Yorkers.
Finally, she came to a stop in front of the coffee shop she’d agreed to meet Roger at, drawing the piece of plastic to her lips and inhaling sharply. Relief washed over her as she felt that hit of salbutamol, her airways clearing as sweat dripped down her neck, her hand coming up to clutch desperately at her ribcage. She spun on the spot as she searched for Roger, her gaze landing on a man a mere 3 feet away from her who, she guessed, vaguely resembled her date? He was about 7 inches shorter than he’d claimed, a little scruffy, and nowhere near as ripped, but she supposed he’d have to do.
Before she could get a single word out or even so much as wave a hand to greet him, Roger was speaking.
“Nope, sorry. Asthma? Massive ick, babes,” he said in an accent that sounded nothing like Matt Smith’s, and promptly turned on his heels and walked away.
Exhausted, perplexed, and perpetually disappointed, Bonnie’s shoulders deflated as she scowled after her failed tinder match. With as much gusto as she could manage considering her current state of irritation, Bonnie flipped him the bird — or rather, the back of his head — and let out a loud, petulant whine.
“Seriously? God for-fucking-bid I need to pause for breath while going down on pencil-dick over here,” Bonnie bitched, silently banking on the fact that Rory was within earshot. She supposed she was lucky that she didn't have to worry about it ever getting that far, but she had wasted a banging outfit on the dickhead.