Mrs Oblomov by Andrew Shephard

How did I meet him? Through a dating site. His profile stood out because of its honesty. Instead of bigging himself up like most men he admitted to a long list of faults without a hint of shame. True to his claim of unreliability, he failed to show at Pizza Express at the agreed time.

Usually I would have glugged down my wine, dismissed him as a tosser and slunk off home dispirited. But I didn’t want to let it go. There was a tantalising familiarity about his picture. I was sure I had met him before and I needed to know where. A few taps and swipes on my phone later I had a mobile number for him. I ordered a second glass of wine and sent him a cheeky text asking how long he would be and did he want me to order for him. I tapped the table with my sparkly nails waiting for a ping of acknowledgement. Half a glass of wine later my phone was still as silent as a church mouse.

I was about to press the phone sign and give him a piece of my mind when I had a better idea. I was dressed for a date, and with an indiscreet rearrangement of the plunging neckline of my velveteen dress, took a selfie which I was sure would attract his attention. Now please don’t get the wrong idea about me. That was the first time I had sent a provocative photo to anyone, let alone to a man I was yet to meet. I run a mile when a camera is produced, even on holiday.

The moment I pressed ‘send’ I flushed with embarrassment. I drained the rest of my glass intending to march off home in a huff. But then I thought, ‘How dare he!’ and rang his number. I was going to give that inconsiderate shit a piece of my mind.

The phone rang and rang. I hung on, waiting for it go to voice mail. It rang until I wanted to throw my expensive smartphone onto the floor and crush it with a stiletto heel. The appearance of a waiter asking for a second time if I was ready to order distracted me from my phone rage. I almost cried because the waiter was looking down at me with sympathy bordering on pity. No doubt he had seen the same scenario many times. I realised my cleavage was still on maximum display and would have liked to slip under the table.

“My… colleague has been held up in traffic. I don’t think it’s worth me waiting any longer. Can I just pay for the wine?”

I was tugging up the material of my dress when my phone buzzed, flashed, and vibrated. I grabbed it from the table, accepted the call, and before the bastard could speak launched into a tirade using language I reserve for special occasions. I paused, waiting for him to defend himself with a pathetic excuse. There was a yawn and a further breathy pause before he replied.

“Sorry, I was asleep when you called. Am I supposed to be somewhere?” His deep, soporific voice matched perfectly the come-to-bed eyes of his profile picture. I asked him for his address and told him, unnecessarily, to stay where he was. And that is how I came to be Mrs Oblomov.