Romance is Dead

It’s not a good sign. She still hasn’t taken off her coat or sat down. Just clasps her handbag to her chest and scowls at her phone.

“You don’t look like your photo,” she says flipping the handset round and thrusting it across the table.

I lean forward, peering at the screen through slitted eyes. Damn. I shouldn’t be so vain. Where did I put my glasses. As I fumble in my pockets and pat my cloak up and down, she snatches back her hand, sighing and clicking her teeth.

I don’t know why she’s making such a fuss. Yes, the picture was taken a few years ago, but it’s not a bad one. In fact, I think I look rather dashing. If the lighting had been better, I could probably pass for a young George Clooney.

“My friend snapped it during our tour of the Dead Sea. I confess it was a couple of summers ago when I had more hair and…”

“Couple of summers?” she scoffs. “Couple of centuries more like.”

She loops the strap of her handbag across her shoulder and shoves her phone into her coat pocket.

“Nope, I’m out. This is never going to work. Not in this lifetime,” she says, stalking across the crowded wine bar and muttering how she should’ve swiped up instead of down.

I can’t believe she’s gone. That’s got to be the shortest date ever. She didn’t even say goodbye. Not properly. I push my glass away, flinching when I catch sight of my reflection in the wine bottle. My eyes are inky black sockets, my cheeks sunken and hollow. I look like a bag of bones. No wonder she bolted.

I fling a few notes on the table and stagger into the high street, shoppers heckling and jeering when they see me. I do wish they wouldn’t. It’s not like I’m here on business.

“Go on, scram. Clear off.”

I startle, leaping out of the way to avoid a woman, steamrollering along the pavement with a double pushchair. She narrows her eyes and stabs her finger at my chest as she passes.

“Loser,” she growls.

Loser.

She’s right. I am. I can’t even get a date. Not one that stays anyway. Nobody is ever going to love me.

I yank my hood over my head and duck into the alleyway, collapsing against the row of metal bins. Surrounded by discarded cigarette ends and shards of broken glass, I sink to the ground, tears spilling down my cheeks.

I really believed joining a dating agency would change things. Thought this year might be different. But no. It’s going to be the same as all the others. I’ll be spending another Valentine’s Day alone.

I wipe the tear stains from my glasses and peep into the gloom, following the curve of the cobbled passage until it vanishes in the shadows. Oh, I’m here. It must be fate.

I leap to my feet and jog down the alley, rapping on the fuchsia pink door and pushing it open. The interior of 'Dead Fit Dating Agency' is a drab, sorry affair, a bit of a letdown if I’m honest. A battered brown leather couch lurks in the corner and the patterned orange wallpaper is peeling at the top. The only splash of color is from Gloria herself whose wild pink hair I spy over the top of her computer. She peeks round her screen and smiles.

“Oh, Grim it’s you. Hang your cloak on the back of the door. And if you can pop your scythe in the umbrella stand, please. I don’t want any blood over the carpet. I’ve just had it professionally cleaned.”

“It’s Graham.”

“Sorry, what?” she asks, sliding her glasses up and wrinkling her nose.

“My name. It’s Graham. Graham Reaper. Grim’s just a nickname because I look a bit…”

“…Terrifying… Scary.”

“I was going to say serious.”

“Right, yes. Serious.”

She rests her elbows on the desk and cradles her chin in her hands: “So what brings you here today?”

“I’ve just been on the worst date ever,” I say fidgeting in my chair and clutching a beige cushion to my chest.

“The worst? What? Even worse than last week when she was spirited away halfway through dinner?”

I wriggle in my chair, scratching my jaw. Thanks for reminding me, Gloria. Although she’s right. That was another terrible date.

I’d only just ordered my favorite dessert – death by chocolate if you must know – when she said she needed to pop to the ladies’ room. Said she wouldn’t be a minute. And she was right. She wasn’t a minute. After two hours, I’d had to accept she wasn’t coming back. It was so embarrassing. I could feel all the other diners staring at me, their eyes boring into my skull as I stumbled out of the restaurant.

“You didn’t take her to your usual haunt, did you? What’s that dive called? The Coff…”

“… The Coff Inn. No, I didn’t,” I huff. Jesus. What does she take me for. “Actually, I took her to the new wine bar in the high street, The Grapeful Dead. It’s rather nice. Have you been?”

She shakes her head and turns, tapping away on her keyboard. I don’t like the way she’s frowning at the screen, her eyebrows sliding down her face.

“I did receive a complaint about you actually.”

“Oh.”

“From Jessica. Last Friday night. Said you were terrible company. A total killjoy were her exact words. All you did was moan about work and how depressed you’d been.”

“Well, she asked me about my job and…”

I bite my lip. I suppose I had banged on a bit. It wasn’t my fault though. I was still reeling from the five bad reviews on Trust Pilot earlier in the day. All of them gave me one star and said their deaths had been boring and unimaginative. I was livid. They have no idea of the pressure I’m under.

“.. And I’ve been a little down,” I whisper. “Don’t enjoy the same things I used to. In the old days I’d love standing outside nursing homes, pointing my scythe at random old folk and mouthing ‘you’re next’. But now they just laugh and throw things at me. Nobody respects death anymore.”

Gloria rakes her hand through her hair and spins her chair back and forth. I wish she wouldn’t. It makes me feel quite dizzy.

“Graham. Women want to be wooed on a first date. Romanced. They don’t want to sit and listen to you trot out all your emotional baggage.”

I nod, my bottom lip wobbling.

“And maybe freshen up your wardrobe too. Black is so deadening.”

“Right,” I mumble, staring at my hands, trembling in my lap. “I just hoped to be dating someone by Valentine’s. I get so lonely watching all the other couples laughing and having fun together.”

Gloria heaves herself out of her chair and perches on the edge of the desk. She tilts my chin up, forcing me to look her in the eyes.

“At the end of the day Graham, you need to find a woman who loves you for who you are, okay? Don’t give up. Never say die, that’s my motto.”

I sniff and whisper my thanks. Shrugging on my cloak, I grab my scythe and lurch into the alley. I’m so busy hunting in my pocket for another tissue; I don’t hear the clatter of footsteps until it’s too late. I’m tossed to the ground, my head cracking against the floor, my scythe skittering across the cobblestones.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. That was my fault.”

I feel myself being pulled to my feet and I stumble against the wall, heart pounding, stars exploding in my head.

“Are you okay?”

My eyes swim and I see a young woman gazing up at me, chewing on her fingernails, her blonde hair tumbling round her face. Wicked green eyes. She’s absolutely drop dead gorgeous.

“I love your cloak. Is that Valentino? I’m too short to wear anything like that. You’re so lucky.”

My cheeks blaze red, and I shuffle from foot to foot. I can’t think what to say, the words dying on my lips.

“You’re probably busy,” she says, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “But do you fancy a drink? There’s a wine bar round the corner. The Grapeful Dead. Do you know it?”

I nod: “Are you sure? Most people won’t be seen dead with me in public.”

“Course, I’m sure. I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

“Then I’d love to.”

She smiles, reaching for my hand and we amble towards the high street. I can’t stop grinning or sneaking a look at her under the corner of my hood. Honestly, and I’ll make no bones about it. This might just be my best Valentine’s ever.