I like to sit on the roof and think.
I think people are far too focused on the past, especially when we are committed to starting over.
I like to chat for a while before meeting.
Get to know @salt&seagirl with Three Random Questions:
Favorite time of day:dusk
Favorite dessert:crepes
How close are you with your family?
I’m really close with my sisters—
I live with my great aunt—
Not very. I don’t have much of a family.
! You have four new messages.
I’m settled at work, inthe middle of reading through an incredibly boring old text written by some old white dude who has a hard-on for increasing tithes for the poor (literally that’s the only thing this book is about. Why the poor need to “absolve” their sins by paying more to the church. Which will…keep them even poorer? I swear, men, especially white men, have been the same for all of time: thinking their boring, stupid ideas will automatically captivate willing audiences). When I can’t take it anymore, I shelve Sir Thomas Buchanan’s hopefullyonlymasterpiece in “potential recycling,” because Anise told me I can’t label books as “literary dumpster fires” in case her boss, or her boss’s boss, ever dropped by to check on me and my pile of chocolate wrappers piled high on my technically stolen desk here in the basement. Not that they ever would. But I do it for Anise’s peace of mind.
I grab my phone to think about ordering lunch—I’d been too upset to meal prep yesterday, which is what I usually do Sunday nights—when notifications from Matchmakr pop up all over my screen like confetti. “Oh,” I say, putting one hand on my stomach. All of a sudden I feel too nervous to be hungry.
I open the app, tap the messages button with the red, vibrating notifications, and deflate.
Hey sexy. Show me that ass, says the first one.
lol what the fuck is a crepe, asks the next.
Chat for a while befor meeting? Typical female. All u do is lead us men on and USE us for FREE. DINNeR.
Block.
When I’d first heard various young women around town talkingabout how online dating was a shit show nowadays, I…somehow thought they were referring to when they actually got to thedatingpart. That the men they’d decided to go out with didn’t tip the server or asked them what kind of underwear they had on even before ordering drinks or otherwise displayed some enormous red flag immediately.
I didn’t realize until I first tried out a dating app that they meant it was a shit show beforechatting virtuallyhad evenbegun.
I don’t know why I thought a regional app would be any different. I guess, you know, I had imagined that men in big cities would be more patient and sophisticated compared to a high percentage of the men in Cranberry. When I was fourteen, my high school band took a trip to Baltimore to perform at a little amphitheater downtown. I remember almost nothing about the performance itself, but what’s seared in my mind is just after it, the moment we stepped out into the city street right as the sun was folded into the sky, the lights in the tall buildings and coffee shops and bakeries all glowing spun gold. The sidewalks were full of people in business-casual wear making their way home for the day. I always thought, surrounded by that many perspectives, each human their own whole universe, it would make someone a great deal more contemplative than say, your average Grayson Baker. But, I was wrong. Everywhere it seems, men are…ugh,men.
I’m about to clear my inbox when my gaze settles on the fourth message.
So, what do you think about on the roof?
It’s from a profile with the name @tryingsomethingnew, which I find instantly intriguing. After all, I’m literally doing thesame thing. Trying something new. And scary. And…kind of exciting, now that I have one (1) single message that doesn’t appear to be remotely creepy or weirdly angry.
A quick look at his profile shows that he’s a man who enjoys kayaking and hate-watching reality television (especially house-flipping shows), and he loves potatoes in all forms. Sounds like Not a Murderer so far, unlike literally all the others.
I write back:It’s kind of different every time. Sometimes I think about the whales in the ocean…because I can see the distant waves from my rooftop. Right? And whales sing in different languages. Or dialects, maybe.
I hit send and then immediately wish I could undo the message. This is already too much of an info dump straight from my brain. I’m supposed to be flirty and sexy, not…discussing whale dialects. I’m supposed to be theoppositeof Weird Girl Who Hangs Out with Wolves in the Forest.
I begin composing an apology when his reply comes through.Have you ever heard about the loneliest whale in the world?He sends an article about “52 Blue,” a whale who sings at 52 hertz. Fifty-two hertz is too high a frequency for 52 Blue to be able to connect with any other whales…which is lonely indeed. Whales, like humans, are a social species.
Before I can respond, @tryingsomethingnew sends another link. This one is to a recording of 52 Blue’s call. I turn up the volume on my cell phone. When I hit play, I can’t help myself. My eyes fill with tears.
The Flores women, as far as we can remember, have been born withgifts. Supernatural gifts. Magic gifts. Nadia has always said that our gifts come from some Flores woman long ago offending the old gods—a sure way to attract some kind of generational curse. But I don’t know how she can know that for sure. It’s nevermade sense to me. How can my connection with those who are more than human be a punishment of some kind? We call themgiftsbecause theyfeellike gifts because theyaregifts.
