The Hammock and the Hummingbirds. A novel by Karine BaridonChapter 2 —
My Gallery of Imperfect Gems
Epigraphs
I no longer believe in love at first sight,
but I carry on pretending I do.
The text
Filled with naïve optimism – and probably under the influence of too much magnesium – I’ve decided to sign up to a dating site. New life, new mindset, fabulous new bloke. So I’ve posted my personal ad: carefully thought out, not too long, just mysterious enough to intrigue, and not too out there so as not to come across as a bit of a nutter.
☑ Avoid spiritual references right from the start.
Come on, girl, let’s get this over with, and quickly. Dating sites aren’t really your thing, so:
☐ 1 personal ad,
☐ 1 initial contact,
☐ 1 date,
☐ 1 single goal: 1 real meeting.
Come on, don’t beat about the bush. No waffle, get straight to the point. Be brave, cheer up! Boldness pays off! Let’s go, my darling!
A lucid and vulnerable confession about my collection of imperfect gems.
RARE MODEL! LIMITED EDITION!
My presence is unforgettable!
☑ Original bodywork.
☑ When moving forwards, my chest leads the way.
☑ When reversing, my bottom warns me of obstacles.
☑ I was the hand double for snow shovels.
☑ My eyes don’t always agree on where to focus.
☑ My hair embraces its freedom of expression: airy and bohemian.
☑ My smile excuses everything: neither white nor straight, just genuine.
☑ My skin is magnetic: you can’t have it all!
A genuine gem
Free and grounded:
☑ I’m a living gallery of unapologetic self-deprecation.
☑ Lucid and tender—respect is a must. But only in writing.
☐ When speaking, I’m completely unfiltered. I have less time to think.
☑ I live with a permanent time lag.
☑ My comebacks often come at dessert time.
Apart from that,
If you think I’m flawless, you’re mistaken.
But let me reassure you straight away: I don’t own up to all of them.
Non-negotiable bonus:
☑ I’m over fifty. COLLECTOR’S ITEM
☑ You’ll meet my parents.
☑ With me, it’s serious.
A little hidden clause
That nobody wants to read in the contract:
☑ I suffer from an incurable allergy to being controlled and to unsolicited advice.
Selective, I only meet:
☑ On REAL-LIFE DATES
And if you fancy setting off on a journey with me, I’m more into:
☑ Long-haul trips…
Absolutely inevitable:
☑ I come out with goofy punchlines.
I look forward to meeting you, so we can smile together as we gaze out at the sea.
Because if you change your angle, you end up facing the road.
☑ 1 personal ad.
Right, that’s done! Let’s go!
Operation: Let’s meet up!
I start scrolling…
After two hours, the verdict is in, and it’s final: national depression.
Out of 100 per cent of profiles:
90 per cent: 0 comments! Is introducing yourself a paid feature?
5 per cent: 1 word! ‘Hello’, ‘Hi’… thank you, poetry of life!
2.5 per cent: 1 sentence! ‘I love life.’ ‘Me too.’ Instant connection!
Where have the remaining 2.5 per cent gone? I was hoping for… at least one full sentence!
And suddenly, right in the middle of this emotional and literary desert… a photo.
Boom!
No, seriously, the sort of photo that makes you feel a rush of heat, even without air con.
BOOM!!
Yet, nothing out of the ordinary, just a face… but… one that intrigues me.
I take a closer look: one eye that’s smiling, one eye that’s hiding something… something really deep! I need to know more. I click.
At last, a long text! Yes!
… in a completely unknown language… No!
I check to be sure… No, not English, not Spanish, not even a dialect that vaguely resembles German. A Martian language.
I think to myself: fake profile. It’s got to be. Unless it’s a Baltic spy on a mission?
Too dodgy. I close it. No energy for a geopolitical love conspiracy.
And I start scrolling again… until I’m mentally exhausted. I close the app with the grace of a soufflé collapsing. Drained, limp, my soul shrivelled up.
I need to…
☑ getsomeair. Round 1.
I head to the Presqu’île du Sel, opposite Île du Croco. The sun, the sea, life, happiness! I come back feeling revitalised! Right, I’m off again! The very same day, yes, I know… emotional weakness. But I’ve made a commitment to myself: to persevere for at least 48 hours before declaring love definitively dead.
And then, a sign of fate or the magic of the algorithm? The same photo pops up again!
And BOOM!
OK, Universe, I see you…
Yes! This time, the text is in English!
A revelation!
It’s deep, intelligent, sensitive. A real human, with a brain and a heart. A species now protected. I should point out that ChatGPT doesn’t exist yet. Well, actually it does, but nobody’s using it. Well, actually they are, but not me. So I write to him in English, using two fingers, sticking my tongue out slightly – casual but charming (well, I hope so, anyway). And I suggest we meet up: on such-and-such a day, at such-and-such a time, at such-and-such a well-known place.
☑ 1 initial contact. Todo va bene!
…
No reply.
Right, fine. I refuse to mope about whilst I wait. I book two more dates, just on principle. You shouldn’t put all your eggs in one basket. I close the app and get on with my life…
☑ getsomeair. Round 2.
Two days later… Bling!
☑ 1 notification!
— Sorry, I was celebrating my birthday yesterday… Blah blah blah…
Long story short: it’s all sorted for a meet-up at the beach this Friday, late afternoon.
☑ 1 date.
Perfect!
☑ 1 summer date, the sun sets at 11 pm.
☑ 1 plan B all sorted just in case:
☑ 1 live gig, just a minute away, right by the water’s edge – brilliant!
☑ Dignity intact.
Worst-case scenario, I can always…
☑ getsomeair. Round 3.
Sing the chapter
