Frankie woke up to four missed calls from a recently deceased, short-lived romance. “How romantic” she thought as she checked the time of the calls. Ah, 2:27, just as he would have been stumbling out of the chipper pondering where to go next. She knew that must have been a missing scene from the classics – Ryan Gosling and Richard Gere were bound to passionately chase the girl while holding a burger and sporting lager breath, right?
She had to admit that he seemed rather charming at first with a great sense of humour and many promises of a date. Although, these traits were slightly overshadowed by his late night phone calls. Oh, and that time she caught him mid sloppy shift with someone who was 100% not her. In fact, she was a younger model by about three years – Boobs not yet heading south and lacking that edge of insanity Frankie possessed after meeting man after man like this one. Frankie was only 22, but she quickly became an older model. Love was changing like technology, she could no longer keep up.
Frankie knew he was only one of an entire species. Of course not all of them were like this, but the midnight man was still a common one to come across these days. She had become far too familiar with the feeling of receiving that romantic “You out?” text when she would post a Snapchat story with the location clearly stated at the bottom of the picture. She was in the process of having a night out detox and planning her excellent future reply: “Yes I am out… of your league mate, cyaaaa.”
At about 11am, she finally dragged herself out of the bed. Staring at herself in the mirror – Blue hair looking like she had been electrocuted, dribble covered Disney pyjama top disguising her food baby from last night’s midnight cheese binge, and skin as pasty as the aftermath of the Beast from the East – it was absolutely shocking that these shady men only seemed to want to linger when she had contoured away three chins and borderline crushed all her organs with some over-priced knickers from Dunnes. She was definitely girlfriend material. Wayyyy too girlfriend material. As in, the drastic end of the honeymoon period. She wondered where her sex appeal had gone, before remembering the only spontaneity in her life these days was the surprise monthly return of that one stray boob hair.
Needless to say, after going back and forth with the anger she held towards him in her mind, she chose not to contact him back. Shockingly enough (sarcasm, people) she had no desire to be charmed by him anymore. Any sparks that were ever flying between them had somehow managed to light her up in flames. Not in a passionate way, more in a “oh shoot my house is on fire” kinda situation. To be honest, the only thing he made her feel now was as if her life was heading south with her boobs. She asked herself many questions – Was he really worth all this thought when she was only a last minute one for him after a few pints? Over 20 quid was spent on those knickers, was he really worth potentially crushing organs for? And most importantly, out of all the texts he sent and calls he made, did he ever offer to buy her a burger too? Absolutely not. Laters lad.