Alittle red notification bubble pops up like a tiny digital middle finger.
Great.Another interruption. Because raising a ten-year-old, managing two businesses, and shacking up with someone who’s common-law eligible but still not husband material isn't a handful already.
Social notification.Not even a text. Just the algorithm, mocking me from the void.
My furniture restoration business is finally launching. Thorne Revival. I’ve graduated from garage hoarding and online-only sales into a bona fide workshop with a legitimate store front. Everything is moving in the right direction… even if it’s slow.
I refresh the page, wired for response and starving for that tiny spike of validation.
Two thousand followers.
It’s not viral, but my marketing brain soothes the anxiety rising in my throat by reminding me it’s respectable for a niche business.
I fire off a joke to my best friend, Demi.
[Sable]:Omg. 2K followers. Clearly, I’m crushing it. Where’s my six-figure home decor deal??
Demi responds instantly.
[Demi]:HELLO BIG SHOT!!! Ride that algorithm, you filthy capitalist queen!
My comeback dies at my fingertips as a new follower notification flashes across the screen.
A dog account.
Huh.
Normally, I wouldn’t give it a second thought, but something makes me pause. The profile pic shows two scruffy terriers, the kind my Aunt Mel always posts about on her Facebook account in nauseating frequency. For a second, I think maybe she’s finally figured out Instagram and migrated over to the more “trendy” platform.
Nope. Random person.
Still, the account name seems weirdly familiar. I click on it, check the following list, and that’s when the first needle-prick of unease hits.
The account is linked to another in theAbout Me section. I tap on the human profile picture linked to these dogs, blowing it up to a size these aging eyes can actually handle.
And there she is.
Blonde. Fit. Slightly more muscular than I usually find attractive on a woman, but hey, I can appreciate a solid bicep. She has that effortless athletic hotness that suggests she wakes up at dawn to lift weights for fun in a matching sports bra and coochy-suffocating spandex.
I can relate. That used to be my whole personality (RIP)… five hobbies ago. Hell, it’s how Andrew and I met. But running two businesses, I’ve turned from a water-hauling wellness warrior to a caffeine-fueled machine. I eye and swipe my sweating, extra-large iced coffee and take a long, satisfying sip.
My gaze lingers on the girl’s photos. Studying, not savoring. Comparing, not craving. Attraction, for me, has never been about gender. However, I’ve found the male organ plays a crucial role in the experience—for me at least. There was that whole exploratory phase in college, of course. Tequila shots and impromptu make-out sessions with friends during parties. Less about self-discovery and more about the room spinning and someone daring me to kiss Jessica—again. Still, I can’t pretend this woman is not objectively hot.
And, apparently… she's obsessed with my page.
Interesting…
My fingers hover over my screen as I put the pieces together in real-time.
She lifts weights at the gym that my long-term boyfriend Andrew’s a member of. (Weird, but fine?)
She follows my business page. (Potential client?)
