Breakfast Betrayal

You know when you match with someone on an app and you think, hmm, not exactly my usual cup of tea, but what the hell, I could use a bit of human interaction and an excuse to put on actual trousers? Well, this was one of those.

He was a tall, slightly gangly South African chap. Friendly enough, but not exactly the brooding intellectual I usually go for (or at least pretend to go for). Still, I hadn’t been on a date in what felt like a century, and my social life had recently become a rotating cast of Deliveroo drivers and awkward Zoom calls — so I thought, why not?

We arranged to meet for breakfast. Always a bold move. Morning dates scream, I'm efficient, optimistic, and still capable of joy before 11am. The chat was... how do I put this politely? Tepid. Like tea someone forgot they were brewing. Nice enough, but nothing that made me want to cancel my afternoon plans.

The breakfast, however? Glorious. Crispy bacon, runny yolk, coffee strong enough to resurrect my social battery.

Then came the moment. The betrayal.

I popped to the loo — and on the way back, as I approached our table, I caught a glimpse of his phone. And what do I see? Hinge. Open. Actively scrolling.

ON. A. DATE. WITH. ME.

I mean really — who does that? Couldn’t even wait for me to finish peeing before lining up his next option. Honestly, I’ve seen supermarket queues with more loyalty.

Still, I’m a generous soul (read: mildly intrigued by the drama), so I decided to give it one more shot. We went for a little stroll, and unsurprisingly, the conversation didn’t exactly evolve into anything resembling chemistry. Think two slightly confused penguins waddling through a park, wondering why they left the comfort of their ice blocks.

After we parted ways, I hopped on my bike, channeling what I hoped was a “cool girl on the go” vibe. What actually happened was me trying to hoist myself onto the saddle in a way that can only be described as physically comedic. Think: limbs akimbo, skirt doing its best to rebel, dignity somewhere in the gutter.

I pedalled off, trying not to think about the visual chaos I’d just inflicted on the world. Glanced over my shoulder and — yep, there he was, watching. Fabulous. Nothing says dream girl like aggressively mounting a bike like a newborn giraffe.

Anyway, I chalked the whole thing up to experience, filed it under “Weirdly Forgettable Encounters” and moved on.

Then came the message.

“Hey, I just didn’t feel a spark and don’t want to pursue anything.”

Oh. Okay. YOU didn’t feel a spark? The man browsing for backup dates while I was washing my hands didn’t feel a spark? Please.

What made it worse — and by worse, I obviously mean deeply hilarious in hindsight — is that I wasn’t even that into him. I’d mentally rejected him halfway through his uninspired take on oat milk lattes. But did I say anything? No. I chose the path of quiet grace. A non-response. Mature, elegant… possibly came across as petty.

Do I regret not replying? Not really. Although there’s a part of me that wonders if he read my silence as heartbreak rather than boredom. Either way, the ghost of that bicycle dismount haunts me still.

So, what’s the moral of the story? Maybe it’s: don’t ignore your instincts. Maybe it’s: always wear bike shorts under your dress. Or maybe it’s just this — if someone’s checking dating apps mid-date, you’re well within your rights to fake a call, leave early, and treat yourself to another round of poached eggs.

Godspeed out there, fellow daters. May your breakfasts be brilliant and your exits graceful.