I *have* to tell you about my flatmate...

This tale of looking for love... will make your day.

In my early twenties, I had this incredible room mate. He was funny, smart, kind, handsome, great taste in music, hygienic, chronically optimistic (but not in like a Drew Barrymore in the rain way- I love her, but come on now…), and the only straight man I have ever known, to bring me hot water bottles on repeat during my period, without being asked. A unicorn. A legend. A real man.

I couldn’t post photos of my room mate, so i’m just posting random pictures in my phone of me.

The kind of man, you can wake up at 5am, when he’s blind drunk, and apologetically explain to him that you left your window slightly open last night, and somehow an enormous pigeon has gotten into your room, and is very angry, and shitting absolutely everywhere. And without hesitation, he jumps out of his bed, stinking of beer, gathers his duvet as his noble shield, staggers to your bedroom, shoves you out of the way, and captures it for you, setting it free, all in under 5 minutes. Is he a man, or is he a knight?

We were the best of friends, and in 4 years of living together, never had a moment of anger or even friction. A proper soul mate. I will never be able to explain the abject pheromonal cruelty of us not being attracted to each other. It made no sense. But some people are just born to be family. We knew it the moment we met.

I was just his ever-faithful wingwoman. Rabid on my hunt to find my young king, his worthy queen. It wasn’t easy. He’d taken his time to get back out there after his previous long term relationship, and he was a little out of practice, unassuming and shy. The more time went by, the more daunting it became for him. We were all starting to worry he was losing his nerve. Until…

a barista once drew my portrait in my latte.

One night, we’re all out dancing together in a bar, and one of us spots him up against the wall being kissed half to death by an extremely attractive young woman. She’s bloody mauling him, and he looks like he’s just won the World Cup. We cheer, we hug, we remark that our work here is done, and we fuck off home to give him a little privacy, giddy for the morning-after gossip.

The next day, he wakes up in his bedroom and stumbles downstairs to our communal kitchen. Everyone waits for the patter of a woman’s tip toes after him, but they never arrive. He came home alone. He liked her a lot, and didn’t want to take her home while they were both so drunk. He wanted it to be special. So he took her number, put her in a cab, and kissed her goodnight.

Only problem was… he forgot her name.

Fuck.

He panics. He looks through his phone for a name he doesn't recognize, but due to being a ludicrously friendly drunk, he can’t recall who half the names and numbers belong to.

A nightmare.

Nobody out with him that night met her. There is one (only first) name that really stands out. It feels very unfamiliar. This must be it. He checks Facebook to see if he can find her, but nothing rings a bell. So in his hungover, slightly horny haze, he thinks “fuck it” and sends an ambiguous “Hi.”

He can’t let on that he’s not sure if it’s her, because it’s ungentlemanly to have kissed her and forgotten her name, even if he was blind drunk, so he just has to play this confident but coy…

She texts back! RESULT! Her messages also a little reticent and vague. She’s not saying anything that explicitly confirms that she’s the one, but her tone is keen and warm… so he keeps going.

They text back and forth all day… getting increasingly flirty and familiar with one another, neither of them discussing the antics of last night. He’s still lacking confirmation, but he’s now in too deep to test the waters in such a way. Either way, whoever he’s texting seems fun.

He’s about to bite the bullet and just ask, when he hears the key turn in the front door. It’s me. I’ve just gotten back from work and have missed all the drama. He breaks down the whole saga for me, in a frazzled but enthusiastic play by play. It’s so sweet. I’m so excited for him. He hands me his phone, to show me the incredibly raunchy messages and make absolutely sure I don’t recognize the number, just incase.

I look at it.

I go very quiet.

“What?” he frantically asks.

I can’t find the words.

I know this name and this number very well.