The suitor suggested a stroll at -20°C because, as he put it, cafés are only for gold diggers. So, I didnt flinchI showed up wearing full ski gear and thermal underwear. But he couldnt possibly have guessed the surprise that awaited him.
His name was Thomas. In his photos: entirely average-looking bloke, mid-thirties, neat, nothing ostentatious. His profile? Philosophical musings about consciousness, personal growth, and the quest for genuine, living souls. Honestly, that was already a red flagmy experience says the louder a man talks about wanting a real woman, the more likely hes angling for someone undemanding, with zero aspirations.
We chatted for a few days. Thomas was, well, polite, with the occasional odd remark thrown in. Favourite topic? How modern women are, apparently, corrupted by money.
All they want is restaurants, holidays in the Maldives, and the newest phones, hed complain. No one cares about souls. Just walking and talking is unheard of.
Out of sheer courtesy, I noddedmentally, of courseand gently changed the subject. He may have been burned before. Perhaps an ex-wife left him houseless or hope-less, who knows. I try not to judge too quickly.
So, he suggests we meet up. The catch? It was February. Not sort-of-February, but the kind with minus twenty on the thermometer and everything feeling like minus twenty-five thanks to the wind. The weather forecast had a severe warning, and the Council kept sending messages: stay home unless desperate.
Lets meet in Hyde Park, Thomas wrote. A proper walk, fresh airgetting to know each other without the fluff.
Tom, I replied, its minus twenty outside. Well turn into ice sculptures in ten minutes. How about a coffee somewhere?
The answer came swiftly.
I dont go to cafés. Theyre full of women waiting to be fed. I want a partner for lifesomeone whos with me through fire, water, and frost. If you need me to splash out two hundred pounds for a coffee, were not on the same path.
Curiosity won. I absolutely had to meet this purist, for whom a cup of Americano was a sign of financial enslavement.
Fine, I messaged. Park it is. 7:00 pm, main gate.
Preparation took longer than Id admit. Out came thermal leggings, thick jumper, and, finally, my ski suit. Woolly socks, sturdy boots, and a trapper hat completed the look.
Staring in the mirror, I resembled someone about to overwinter on an iceberg.
Well, Tom, brace yourself, I winked and headed into the freezing dark.
At exactly seven, I stood at the park entrance. The cold bit instantly at my cheeksthe only exposed patch. The snow crunched underfoot, not a soul around: everyone with sense, including the gold diggers, had opted for warmth.
Thomas was by the gate, wearing an autumn coat. Shifting foot to foot, he hopped and desperately blew on his hands. His nose was a shade of ripe plum; ears burned crimson.
I approached.
Hi, I said, muffled behind my scarf.
He surveyed me, perhaps expecting some delicate sprite trembling in nylons, in need of rescuing. Instead, he was faced with someone looking like a rescue worker from an Arctic expedition.
Hi, he chattered. Youve really prepared.
Well, you said, through fire and water. I thought Id start with frost. Shall we walk and breathe fresh air?
Fifteen Minutes of Fame
We set off down the path. This stroll swiftly became one of the weirdest dates Id ever had.
Hows the weather? I asked in my best posh tone.
Invigorating, he managed. His face barely moved; only his lipsa deep blue nowcould still function. I love winter. It tests peoples resilience.
Absolutely, I nodded. About the gold digger thingcan you explain why coffee is the currency of moral bankruptcy?
Speaking seemed physically painfulcold air burning his throatbut principles apparently require suffering.
Because he stammered, voice trembling, relationships should be based on mutual interestnot wallets. If a woman cant just walk, but immediately expects a feeding, shes a consumer.
And if she simply doesnt fancy a bout of pneumonia? I asked, readjusting my hood.
Thats just excuses, he retorted, sniffing loudly. If you want to come, youll find a way. Dress warmer.
Well, I did, I gestured at my massive profile. The problem is, you didnt. Are you sure youre not freezing?
Im fine! he snapped, although his shaking was visible even in the dim light.
Ten minutes later, we reached the central square. There stood a closed coffee stall. Thomas eyed it with the longing of a tragic hero.
Maybe we should head back? he suggested. The winds picking up.
Oh, really! I enthused. Were just getting started. You wanted to see my soul. Lets talk literature. Do you like Jack London? He wrote a great story, To Build a Firethe bloke freezes to death, underestimated the cold.
His look was not remotely soulful.
Listen, I need to go, he cut in. Got urgent matters.
What matters? We had plans.
Work. Just remembereddidnt send my report.
At eight oclock, Friday night?
Yes! he nearly shouted.
He turned sharply and practically sprinted for the exit. I strolled behind, thoroughly enjoying the moment: my survivalist lasted exactly fifteen minutes.
At the tube, he didnt even say goodbyejust disappeared into the blissful warmth. I do hope he thawed more than his toesmaybe his views, too. Though, probably not.
Back home, I brewed a hot tea and deleted his chat. No regretsthose fifteen minutes were the best inoculation against guilt, a reminder that self-care doesnt make a woman a gold digger.As I curled up under a blanket, sipping my piping-hot tea, the phone vibrateda message from a friend whod once told me, Go on dates, even the weird ones. Every story becomes yours. I grinned, thinking how true that was. The only frostbite tonight had been to my patience, but the warmth of self-respect was wonderfully intact.
Later, outside my window, the city glowedthe distant lights flickered like an invitation. In that shimmer, I realized I never needed to prove my resilience to someone so eager to fail his own test. Next time, Id pick the caféand maybe even a slice of cake. After all, gold diggers are in short supply, but gold moments, made by good company and laughter, are everywherewaiting for souls brave enough to demand warmth.
And if anyone asks how I survived Hyde Park at minus twenty, Ill say: with layers, wit, and a heart that knows its own worth.
