. . . a flyer
‘You are a great writer,’ Noah says between bites of his protein bar. ‘Seriously, I feel like I’m sitting at the table with you.’
‘You don’t think it’s too harsh?’ I ask.
‘Oh, if I were him, I’d cry. But by the sounds of it, it was well deserved.’
The New Traveller released my first four articles this morning while Noah was out working.
They thought the bulk release would give people a taste of what the column’s about before we dived in with more sporadic singular uploads.
Noah practically ran back to our hostel once he got the email notification, claiming the rest of his workday could wait.
He’s been sitting on his bed scrolling through them ever since, while I’ve watched on in terror.
‘When does the next one come out?’ he asks.
I shrug. ‘Whenever I actually write it. Honestly, I’m struggling.’
‘But you’ve been so productive since we got here – three dates in five days! That’s got to be plenty of content!’
‘None of them were that interesting.’ I shrug. ‘The first guy ate with his mouth open, the second called me his “chocolate queen” and the girl from last night was super nice, but that was it. Just nice. We had nothing in common.’
‘Well, you better get writing; I’m on the edge of my seat.’
He pores over the page as he starts to reach the end, eyebrows moving along with the story.
‘I just thank my lucky stars that I didn’t do anything that made you brutally assassinate me in this way,’ he says, grinning.
‘There’s still time,’ I say, deadpanning.
He glances up from his phone, a playful smirk painted across his face. Challenge accepted.
‘ “So it appears, though I hate to admit it, that I had been deceived after all. Underneath his blinding crown and jewels, the pedal-boat prince was just another chauvinistic frog.” You may be the next Shakespeare. In like, a deeply cutting way,’ he says.
‘Shakespeare was deeply cutting; he just did it with symbolism and stuff,’ I tut.
Much like Noah, I have been glued to my laptop since the pieces came out, but for a slightly more pathetic reason.
Analeise sent me an email with a bunch of next steps and one finite warning: do not look at the comments.
People can be harsh and it will only drive you crazy.
But the more people read it, the more they flooded my socials and I just couldn’t help myself.
Most have been positive. The first four dates have been well received and people can’t wait to see what happens next.
Some even plan to channel me and date more themselves, citing me as inspiration and thanking me for my service.
But of course, those aren’t the ones that have stuck.
Those aren’t the ones that have been etched in my brain since I first took them in.
The dating-app breakdown girl?!
They’re really just handing out columns for free . . .
I hate that virality has overshadowed people with talent.
Lol, no one even cared that much, this is actually a joke.
I’ve typed out countless replies and brainstormed videos in my head where I break down my writing dreams from childhood to now, but none of it seems worth it.
Plus, Analeise made it clear that if I do read them, I absolutely cannot respond.
I hover over a new comment, calling me a horrible writer because I used the word ‘an’ before a word beginning with H.
H is an honorary vowel, you idiot, I type, before letting out a deep sigh and deleting the whole thing.
‘Right, put that away.’ Noah shuffles closer. ‘You can’t spend your time in Berlin with your head in your laptop.’
‘But the comments, they’re—’
‘Irrelevant!’ He nudges my laptop closed. ‘Let’s go out, let’s do something, let’s forget the comments.’
I look to him, a human Labrador of a man basically panting at my feet. I can’t say no to him.
‘What shall we do?’ I ask.
He sparks to life, practically jumping to show me a vaguely crumpled A4 leaflet. I look over the flyer, rife with clip art and Comic Sans, and far too many exclamation marks, and read the heading aloud. ‘ “Bonkers bar crawl!” ’
‘It’s run by the hostel. One of the girls here handed it to me, actually. She said she went last week and it was full of social travellers.’
I look at his lips pursed in anticipation as his entire body clenches. He’s far too tense for a simple bar crawl. I lean closer, my senses tingling.
‘This girl who gave you the flyer . . . did she just so happen to be called Eléa?’ I ask.
His eyes drop to the floor. ‘Maybe. Does it matter?’
‘How long were you talking to her?’ I ask.
He blushes. ‘I talk to everyone.’
He doesn’t care about me or the bar crawl. He cares about the cute girl whose neck turned 180 degrees the moment the two of us first entered the bedroom. The only one of our six random roommates who has acknowledged our presence, let alone talked to us.
‘I didn’t bring it up because of her. I brought it up because you need a distraction and better dates. And what better place to hit both those goals than an alcohol-heavy walk around Berlin?’ he says.
‘Yes, an alcohol-heavy walk around Berlin with a gorgeous French girl who oh-so-nicely asked you to come . . .’ I say teasingly.
I ignore the twist in my stomach. This is good for him. Good for us.
‘You’re losing focus!’ He tuts, far too hot-headed. ‘It’s only twenty euros and all the drinks at the bars are free.’
I sit up straighter, the concept of free(ish) drinks sparking my complete attention.
I think of the dribble of cash I got from the first few articles that immediately had to pay off my credit card debt .
. . The IOU I wrote to Noah, promising him my next magazine payment for our room in Amsterdam .
. . And the negative numbers that still plague my bank account, despite the way it wiped out my first instalment.
I could do with a cheap night. I could do with some fun, and an opportunity to meet new people that costs a minimal amount.
‘Are you in?’ he asks, halting my pity party.
I can part with twenty euros for a whole night of fun. And despite his forced nonchalance, he reads like an open book. He wants this girl and I will help him get her.
‘The drinks are definitely free?’ I ask.
‘If they’re not, I’ll cover yours.’
He’s practically vibrating with excitement.
‘Then I’m in.’ I watch his face immediately shift from anticipation to unbridled joy.
‘We will have the best time!’ he says.
And for a brief moment, I actually believe him.