The Single Cynic: An uncomfortable date with a sad postscript

I matched with Saoirse on a now defunct dating website that required you to answer lots of questions as well as writing a profile. This was 2009, so dating apps weren’t a thing yet.

We texted each other for a few weeks about everything from hobbies to politics before actually meeting up.

After I’d attended a work-related event in Galway city centre, she joined me for dinner at the hotel where I’d booked to stay for the night before getting a morning train home.

Our profile photos probably had not been the best. Hers had also been taken at a distance, but I could make out that she was tall with blonde or fair hair. I hadn’t been on many dates before this. She texted me to say she was in the lobby and, as I descended the stairs, my mind was a jumble of curiosity, nerves, testosterone and hope.

Our eyes instantly met as I walked into the lobby. Hers were bright and strikingly blue. She wore brown leather boots, blue jeans and a darkly coloured top with a brown waistcoat that had a fake fur collar. Her hair was fair and her skin seemed even paler than my own sunburn-prone pasty white tone. As far as I could make out, she was wearing a bit of mascara but no other make-up.

Our conversation was stilted initially. I remained nervous as we discussed our families, backgrounds and jobs. The dinner was fairly unremarkable, which wasn’t a great reflection on what was an expensive hotel. About half an hour in, there was an awkward silence and she mentioned being addicted to sleeping pills and how her German ex-boyfriend hadn’t treated her well, without elaborating.

After a drink in a cosy corner of a nearby quiet pub, there was undeniably physical chemistry between us. But I felt a definite case of imposter syndrome, and the sleeping pills admission had made me very uncomfortable. As the time came to say goodbye, she asked if she could spend the night with me. My discomfort overruled my attraction and I offered just a hug.

Her texts became more frequent in the weeks that followed. She asked if we could meet in Dublin for dinner and to see a play, spending the night together there afterwards. But my discomfort level became increasingly unbearable. I put this down to her addiction, which to me felt like a vulnerability that I shouldn’t exploit. I made an excuse to avoid the Dublin date, but she continued texting me, asking when we could meet again.

Some weeks later, out of the blue, I received an email from the mother of my best friend and first love from university who had passed away from cancer at the age of 33. I was desperately sad and consumed with grief. When I mentioned it to Saoirse, the extent of her sympathy was that she’d “help me forget all about it”, if only we could meet up again and spend the night together.

This was too much. When I asked her to stop texting me, she got angry, blamed me for making her feel rejected, then said I “obviously wasn’t a real man”. I apologised, but my sorrow for her was accompanied by a certain amount of relief.

I deleted her number, but had forgotten we were connected on LinkedIn. After at least a year had passed, I messaged her to ask how she was. She had taken up running and was training to be a psychotherapist. She asked if I’d like to meet again. I didn’t respond.

Some years later, I looked up Saoirse again, this time on Facebook. She was in a relationship and they had a dog together.

A few more years passed and when I looked her up for the last time, I found a newspaper obituary alongside a photo of her, saying she had passed away tragically. 

If you or someone you know has addiction issues, you may be interested in our podcast with psychotherapist and addiction specialist Chip Somers or our episode with entrepreneur Jack McGarry on his journey to sobriety. You can find more resources for support here.