I Tried Dating One Of Those Guys Holding A Fish In His Bumble Profile Pic

Carry a date with me the candle carved with runes as I throw a handful of rose petals, cinnamon and bay leaves into the river. I cried, “O blue moon waters, bless you; hold us in your divinity. It was Halloween, near midnight, a full moon, and I—the fisherman—were floating in a boat, casting a spell for the divine intervention of America.”

The 2020 elections were two days away, and we needed all the help we could get. The hunter was ready to help. He remained silent as I recited the incantation into the ether; The flame blew out when it was time. We were a team that night: guys at the helm of an uncertain future.

The Fisherman and I met in Bumble in the late summer of 2020, before vaccines came out. He was hot, his body muscular, his chest barrel, hair thick, and he laughed… Dating was especially strange at that time, in the middle of quarantine: everyone was hungry for passion but no one knew what was appropriate; Guarding was on a whole new level.

A few months ago, in my hometown, my father was the first person whose doctor had COVID-19. He almost died from it, and I was recovering from the trauma of those agonizing few weeks when my family had no answers. Not to mention I still struggled with the arrival of the Me Too movement; I’m confused about why I’m attracted to men in the first place.

On our first date, The Fisherman and I went for walks with masks on; The second time, we ordered beer on the patio, but the seasons were changing and the weather was cold. We did not kiss until the third date, in a one-on-one fire in his house; Even that was after a long discussion.

The man was a romantic. Like, so romantic that when he one time started kissing me on a street corner–some of the best kisses I’ve been a part of–it went on long enough that my nearest neighbor knocked on his window from the inside to let know, I think, cut it off. The fisherman made sure to stock up on red wine for me every time he met, and when my feet were cold on that frigid Halloween night, he carefully cradled them in his hands, slipping on a spare pair of stockings.

The first time I slept, he had everything I needed on hand: soft clothes for bed, a glass of water, a toothbrush, and even lip balm. When the snow started, we cuddled up on his sofa watching the dark-themed movies we both loved: George A. Romero’s “Season of the Witch” and Andrea Arnold’s “Red Road.” On Valentine’s Day, he gave me a bouquet of pink and yellow roses and some silver dollar eucalyptus.

“It’s good to have someone,” I remember him saying, “in the winter.”

The writer combines two of her favorite things: a handstand and fresh water.

The hunter’s house was strangely beautiful and dream-like, complete with peacock green carpets and stained-glass windows. The cozy galley was situated on a nearby river course and served as an observation deck for the barges; At night, the colored lights of the boats had the effect of a miniature laser show on the ceiling. There were fish nets hanging on the wall for decoration. In the morning the fisherman would bring us coffee and eggs or juice, and we would sit at his kitchen table, looking at the water through binoculars. We watched ducks – Mergansers, teach me – swim and dip their heads underwater to spot fish.

He and I talked for hours by candlelight about lost love (his ex-partner is recovering from cancer; my best friend is moving to Chicago); Best Sad Music (Tyler Childers, Lana Del Rey); Motivated by the “Octavia’s Parables” podcast, we wouldn’t have packed our “go” bag if we had to leave and could never look back (he’d bring practical things like a knife; I’d take my Tarot cards).

Once, I put up a picture of him on a dating app of him holding a fish — that cliched image that has become the internet’s laughing stock — and we kept joking about it. But over time, I found one major stereotype about hunters correct: In love, they can be absent.

I told The Fisherman that I wanted to be with him for one night in early 2021, on a vintage Battleship game. Sure, there were already quite a few miscommunications between us – one week, for example, he assured me he wasn’t sleeping with anyone else, but by the next week or so, he was – but that didn’t matter in the long run, I convinced Myself. I wanted to move forward with him with an open heart.

be withAre you with?” he asked, his eyes turning.

“Why did I go days without hearing from him? What took precedence? When I asked, he took me by the shoulder, led me into his living room, and lifted my chin toward the 20-inch brown trout, I think, affixed to the wall: That was my answer” .

It’s been a few months now–at least four–of this routine: meet once every two weeks, always at his house, and always upon my motivation. He never met my friends or family, and I never met him. He showed me a carved wooden box of an ex-girlfriend: he said to her with a remorse she loved it.

I realized then that he had been in this predicament before. I have questions. If he really loves me, why doesn’t he text me on a regular basis? Why did I go days without hearing from him? What took precedence? When I asked, he took me by the shoulder, led me into his living room, and lifted my chin toward the twenty-inch brown trout, I think, affixed to the wall: That was my answer.

Icelandic singer Emiliana Torrini has an entire album on the topic: the neglected dedication to the fisherman. The Guardian describes her work, aptly called “The Fisherman’s Woman”, as “often beautiful, desperate songs pursued by the subtle currents of loneliness and depression”.

The title track’s lyrics depict a woman with red lips waiting by a window for her partner, who is far out at sea. You imagine him cold and covered in salt, missing her; Feed her his love for her. Deep down, though, she knows best. She is pretending. She despises herself, but still stands by her.

Let’s be real, though. My friend wasn’t a commercial fisherman, so the Torrini song is completely irrelevant. Most importantly, you are done.

I finally broke things off when a couple of weeks or so went by without a connection. I told the hunter that I would not chase after him anymore; His duality has become too much.

I think it was Mark Groves, founder of Create the Love, who taught me that dating is the sort. Here’s the thing: The hunter didn’t want to be with me – he wasn’t the right person – but he helped me discover parts of myself that I didn’t even know existed. Apparently, I like to be near the water, for example. This past summer alone, I went tubing, kayaking, swimming, kayaking, hiking, and watching on or near lakes and rivers as often as I could.

Also – and my therapist helped me in this – the romantic qualities of witchcraft and the questions that I endowed him with are, first of all, mine. So, now, every week, I buy myself a bouquet of flowers at the farmers’ market; I cook myself a great dinner, light candles, drink red wine, eat dark chocolate, and dance shamelessly in my kitchen. I’m a spell factor, after all.

A friend’s therapist once told her that the greatest gift of relationships is that it teaches you about yourself: It’s cheesy, but true. I walked out of my time with The Fisherman, and mentioned that dating can be fun, guys can be tender, and I, as The Fisherman once said, “is as cool as bullshit.”

You too, reader, are as cool as shit. Give this hummingbird with a fish a chance: he might be all you need to realize.

Ashley Greene is a writer and editor for Weinster Yogi, acrobat, and feminist. Her creative work explores notions of gender and sexuality, power structures, and personal freedom. She co-hosted “Itty Bitty Coping Committee,” a podcast about the intersections of art and mental health, and has been published in The Rumpus and LALITAMBA. Find her on Twitter at Tweet embed.

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