Naomi and I

had been going out 

for a couple of months.

We met by chance,

not by a Tinder swipe

or an impersonal algorithm.

We were both real, 

flesh-and-blood teachers,

who taught at the same school.

Not data,

not profiles 

on a dating app.

The first time I saw her,

I liked what I saw:

her nose,

her slightly plump figure. 

My kind of  ballerina, 

I thought.

I guess she liked what she saw, too.

So when I asked her out,

in person,

she also said yes in person,

not by text.

It was all done

in a rather old-fashioned,

slow-food,

analog kind of way.

We enjoyed hanging out,

eating out,

so one night,

I took her to dinner.

As agreed,

I’d give her a quick missed call

as soon as I reached her 

apartment block.

She lived

on the third floor

of a four-storey 

apartment block

that looked as lifeless

as the colony of scruffy, 

underfed stray cats that

had made 

the place its home.

Whatever architect designed this 

derelict-looking building

must have been long dead,

I thought.

The old desert-coloured paint 

was peeling off the exterior walls.

The lawn looked grey instead of green.

The ground was uneven,

not because the grass had been cut unevenly,

but because it was riddled with potholes.

If the apartment block had a janitor,

I never met them.

Naomi took her time.

I quite enjoyed waiting for her.

The chill-out instrumental music on the radio 

kept me company.

Through the large, 

rectangular ventilation openings 

built into the exterior stairwell walls,

I could see her slowly coming downstairs,

first from the third floor,

then to the second,

one hand resting on the concrete railing,

down the poorly lit stairs

that hadn’t been swept in a long time

and that I knew all too well.

She walked towards my rental car,

where I was waiting 

at the curb,

with the engine 

and the AC running.

I could tell she was smiling.

The parking lot was poorly lit.

Only half the lights still worked,

so the only pale glow 

came from the smartphone screen

she held close to her face,

while her busy fingers tapped away,

texting someone in the dark. 

“Hey,” she said, opening the door 

and slowly sliding into the passenger seat.

“Hey,” I replied.

I couldn’t smell 

the French vanilla perfume

I’d bought for her birthday.

“You look great!” I said. 

“Thanks,” she said. Her face lit up with a smile. 

Then she went back to texting.

I slowly pulled away and drove off. 

I kept my eyes on the road,

with chill-out instrumental music 

playing on the radio.

“I thought we were having a romantic dinner tonight,” 

I said in an ironic tone.

“What? Of course!” 

“I mean, just the two of us,” I added.

“What? Did you ask Doug and Mona to join us?” 

she asked, still texting.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Then it’s just the two of us, Mr. Funny Guy,” 

she said, finally looking up, 

apparently taking a quick break from her screen.

“Strictly speaking, it’s three of us,” I said.

“What? Is Crazy Greg coming, too?”

“Nope. Your bloody smartphone is, though.”

“I’m just texting someone, Mr. Funny Guy,” she said.

“You’re always texting someone, babe,” I replied.

“I’m almost done.”

“You sure you want to have dinner with me and not your phone?

You’re always on your bloody phone,” I said.

“OK, OK. I’m almost done.”

“Give it a break, give it a break, give it a rest now…” I started singing,

improvising my own lyrics to the syncopated rhythm 

of a song by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

“Ha ha ha, OK, OK,” she laughed. 

“Give it a break, give it a break, give it a rest now…” I kept singing.

My cellphone was the size of two matchboxes put together.

Its screen was barely bigger than my two thumbs 

placed side by side.

The black thing fitted perfectly in one of the rectangular 

compartments below the car radio.

There was no need for a fancy phone with internet access 

when a quick missed call

from the poorly lit parking lot

could do the job.

Mind you, that was more than ten years ago. 

These days,

I give the glowing screen of my smartphone 

a kiss

first thing in the morning.

The iPad and laptop get one next.

Hey,

you don’t know what you’re missing.

I know my smartphone

isn’t wearing 

makeup,

lipstick,

or perfume,

but my Tinder date later tonight 

probably will. 

We’ve been texting each other 

for weeks.

I reckon

a real conversation 

the first time we meet in person tonight

shouldn’t be that hard.