I reply, “If you had to be eaten by any marine animal, which would you pick?”
She answers, “Shark. Fast, no suffering. You?”
I type, then erase. “Giant squid. I like a challenge.”
I set the phone down. Wait for her next volley.
The second match is the bartender, “Aaron,” which is a name that sets off alarm bells in my head because the last Aaron I met ended up in county for grand theft and/or an unfortunate incident with a rotisserie chicken.
This Aaron’s profile is all black and white, tattoos on every inch of visible skin, beard so aggressive it’s practically a personality trait. His opener, “Is it true hockey players are secretly the biggest bottoms on earth?”
I spit water onto my own lap reading it. For a second, I just stare at the screen, wondering if it’s a joke or a dare.
I reply: “Only the ones who still have all their teeth.”
He writes back, “Hah. Let’s get a drink and find out. Or we could skip the small talk and you can show me your slapshot.”
I let the app autocorrect “slapshot” to “slaphot,” because honestly, that’s probably closer to what would happen. I hesitate.
This is the point where you’re supposed to say “Sure, let’s meet up,” or, if you have boundaries, “How about coffee first?”
Instead, I leave him on read.
There’s a pause, maybe a minute, then he adds, “Or we could just talk about our feelings and cry. I’m emotionally available, fucker.”
I want to say, “You don’t want my feelings,” but instead I close the chat, go back to the endless sea of faces.
After three more swipes, there’s a new match: “Jay,” a nurse at Harborview.
His profile pic is him in scrubs, arms crossed, with a smile so sincere it almost hurts to look at.
His opener: “Hey. You have a nice smile. Sorry if that’s forward.”
I stare at the message for a solid thirty seconds. It’s not a line, not a trap, not even a disguised sexual advance. It’s just… nice.
I try to write something back but the words won’t line up. I force out: “Thanks. Are you always this polite or do you have a dark side?”
He types, “Depends. You want to hear my worst hospital story or my best?”
I answer, “Worst, always.”
He tells me a story about a guy who tried to superglue a cut on his own hand and ended up in surgery.
I try to picture myself sitting across from Jay at a bar, talking about gross medical stories, pretending I’m interested, maybe even letting myself feel it.
But the whole time I’m reading, my brain keeps doing this thing where it splices in the memory of Darius in the Ballard gym, arms glistening with sweat, voice low and brutal, “Push.”
I think of the steam room, the way he looked at me, the shower, the raw hunger in his face before he slammed the wall and shut it down.
I shake my head. Out loud, to no one, I mutter, “You absolute dumbass.”
The next time the phone pings, it’s the marine biologist again, asking if I want to meet up at Volunteer Park for a “low-stakes walk.”
I type “sure,” then delete it. Type “sounds good,” then delete that too.
I just let the message sit. I wonder if she’ll even notice if I don’t reply.
Back in the app, there’s a flash of “Super Like,” which is a bullshit feature, but I check it anyway.
