Are Those Hickies?

Right, so picture this: I’m single, fabulous(ish), and trying this radical new approach to dating where I don’t go for the tall, dark, jawline-that-could-slice-a-loaf types. Revolutionary, I know. I decided to give the “look past the physical, go for the brain” experiment a whirl.

Enter stage left: a Greek bloke — stocky, on the shorter side, bit of a dad bod (and not in the sexy Instagram way), but he made me laugh, was scarily intelligent, and a lawyer to boot. The trifecta of “maybe I’m being shallow” potential.

We dated for about a month. A few dinners, some drinks, polite banter. He was charming in a “I’d win an argument in court but still cry at a Pixar film” kind of way. The man was keen. Always trying to kiss me. I, on the other hand, was out here playing Excuse Tetris: "Oh, I've just had garlic," "I think I’m coming down with something," "Mercury’s in retrograde, probably not the best time." You know, the usual.

He wasn’t picking up what I was laying down – which was basically “I’m not that into you, mate.” But he soldiered on. I even cooked for him once. That night ended with a drunk fumble, which I’d file under “unnecessary but mildly educational.” Then off he went on a stag do somewhere forgettable, promising we’d meet for drinks when he got back.

And here’s where it gets juicy.

He shows up post-stag with what I can only describe as... neck bruises. Hickies. Hick. Ees.

I blink. He sips his drink like nothing's happening. I squint. They’re not subtle. They’re practically glowing. Naturally, I say the only thing one should in that moment:

“Are those hickies?”

To which this grown, educated, practicing-lawyer-of-a-man replies, deadpan: “Oh, no, my mate tried to strangle me. Playfully.”

Excuse me?

I wasn’t sure whether to call a cab or a therapist.

Needless to say, things fizzled quicker than a flat Lucozade. I tried to give him a soft exit — even attempted to set him up with a friend, because I’m nothing if not community-spirited. She declined. Apparently she only dates tall, handsome men. Brutal. I eventually had to block him — not because he was awful, but because he just wouldn’t get the hint. Some people need fireworks and interpretive dance to notice disinterest.

Fast forward a few years. I’m at an event, singing karaoke like a wounded cat who’s just stubbed its toe. I come off stage, flushed from adrenaline and tone-deaf enthusiasm, and who do I bump into?

The Lawyer.

I pull the classic “who are you?” card — mostly as a reflex and maybe partly out of spite. His face drops. “Yeah, sure. Tell me another one,” he mutters, clearly unimpressed by my Oscar-worthy performance.

He kept his distance for the rest of the evening, like a man who’d once been playfully strangled and emotionally bruised. But the next day, during the very wholesome day portion of the event, a colleague sidles up to me and says:

“That guy over there keeps staring at you.”

I turn. It’s him. Again. Mate, give it a rest.

To this day, my mother — who is hopelessly romantic, somewhat oblivious, and obsessed with the idea of me dating a lawyer — still asks:

“Why did you let that nice man go?”

Mum. The hickies. I let him go because he turned up to a date with hickies and blamed a playful strangling. I can't marry that kind of energy.

She doesn’t get it. She never will.

But if you take one thing away from this story — other than to never sing “Wonderwall” at karaoke — let it be this:

Don’t ignore the red flags just because they come dressed in a suit, carry a briefcase, and quote Greek philosophy. Some flags are crimson for a reason.

Until next time, my friends — swipe wisely and remember: if he shows up with a neck full of “strangling bruises,” run. Or at the very least, laugh. Then run.