My heart pounds frantically as I run down St. Marks Place. The street is crowded with people and I have to zig-zag between bodies to make my way through. I peek up at all the faces, glossing quickly over the women to search for any of the men who could possibly be Match 1. There’s a small part of my brain that knows he can’t be here, the improbability of it, close to impossible.Yet…Karma has always found a way to shake things up in my life…I’m the girl who kissed a stranger on a kiss cam and he ended up being the new boyfriend of my best friend. Who does that happen to?
Only someone like me. So, it stands to reason, Match 1 could have been close by when I texted him. That’s what you get for sexting with a stranger on a crazy hating app, asking for a video of him masturbating to the pictures you sent him.
I’m a social media, dating-app harlot.
I barrel around the corner to Third Ave and a few yards away, jogging toward me, is a tall man, wearing a hoodie pulled over his head. Is that Match 1? I avert my eyes and rush past him. Behind him, another man is racing down the sidewalk who could be Match 1 too.
God, I’m losing my mind. I run faster. I’ll feel better when I’m home.
The toe of my high heel catches on a jagged edge in the curb, and I lurch forward and crash palms first into the street. My hands scrape along the asphalt and jarring pain shoots through my wrists. Above me a taxi honks its horn and behind me a few people gasp. One guy even laughs.
“Oh my God. Miss, are you okay?”
I don’t know where the voice is coming from, but I wave it off and climb back up to my feet. “Yes,” I choke out in a mumbled gasp. “It’s just these damn heels.”
I brace an arm against the streetlamp pole trying to steady my panicked thoughts. There is absolutely no way in hell Match 1 can find me. I push my hair from my face and scan the people around me. That one idiot is still laughing and talking to someone on his phone about some really drunk woman who just fell in the street. I sigh and shake my head.
My ankle screams as I slowly limp across the street and away from the small crowd of people who stopped to stare at me. God, I’d be the first one dead in a horror movie, or apocalyptic space invasion.
A quick vibration shakes my back pocket as my phone alerts me to a new message. It’s probably Nate wondering where I ran off to. I hobble a few more steps and pull it out. Across the street the idiot on the phone is still cat calling me about my fall and wondering if I want to have a drink with him. I shuffle farther down the block until I see he gives up and walks in the opposite direction.
I lean against a building and tap open my phone. There’s a new message on the Misanthrope app.
Match 1:Where are you?
That’s it.I’m outta here. ThatWhere are you?sounds like Match 1 might be standing in the middle of the bar I was just in, looking for me. What if someone says,“Oh yeah! The girl you’re looking for just ran out and now she’s stumbling slowly down the block around the corner. If you leave now you can catch up to her…”
Fuck that noise. I hail a taxi and slide into the first one that stops. The drive uptown is quick, thank God, and the moment I climb out of the cab in front of my apartment building, I kick off my heels and breathe a huge sigh of relief.
I feel a thousand times safer as I walk through the lobby of my building. Even my ankle and wrists seem better. By the time I’m riding the elevator, I’m laughing as the craziness of it all. I’m going to delete every dating app on my phone and be done with men.
Maybe I’ll get a pet.Or maybe I’ll just get a picture of a cute animal who doesn’t need to rely on me to live and hang it on my wall.
I drift through my apartment stripping off my shirt, shoving my jeans off, and flinging my bra over my shoulder. I pull on Dex’s jersey and snuggle onto my couch. I wonder if there’s anything new to binge on Netflix.
Against my knee, my cellphone vibrates. Ignoring it, I reach for the plush blanket I keep in the small basket next to the couch and drape it over me.
Yes. This is nice. This is actually perfect.
My cellphone vibrates again. I bounce my leg nervously. Maybe I should just message Match 1 that I’m really not interested in this weird friendship any longer and that’s it. Okay, that’s what I’ll write. I don’t have to give him any elaborate details or excuses. I was just scared out of my damn mind that he might have showed up where I was eating dinner, it’s definitely time to stop doing things that make methatcrazy.
I grab my phone and open the app.
Match 1:I’m outside.
Oh my God.I’m so glad I left that bar when I did. Who knows what would have happened! I told him I was okay, that I could handle myself, but he went to the bar anyway? Match 1 is a lunatic. I click on the next message.
Match 1:I’m coming up. Let me in.
Coming up?The bar wasn’t up any stairs. And you need a reservation to get inside. What does he think, I was going to run to the speakeasy door and just let a madman into the restaurant with me? I toss my phone to the side and flick through the romantic comedies.
Out in the hallway, I hear the low ding of the elevator open on my floor. I shoot my eyes to my front door. My pulse ramps up. My knee bounces faster. It’s nothing. I live on a floor with ten other apartments. I hear the elevator bell all the time. It’s not Match 1. That would be utterly impossible.
I listen for any footfalls. Was that someone clearing their throat? Someone walking toward my door? I mute the volume on the television, straining to hear, but my heart is drumming too loudly through my body.
Is someone standing in front of my door?
I’m just imagining things now. Match 1 does not know where I live. It’s probably Mrs. Kinsey across the hallway coming home from a late night of Bingo. I push the blanket off my legs and stand up, wrapping it around my shoulders. A wave of uneasiness rolls through my stomach. What if it’s not Mrs. Kinsey? I tiptoe to the door and press my ear against it.
