It’s a woman in her thirties, profile photo with a dog, and her bio says “here for fun, not the drama.”
I want to reply: “You’re in the wrong fucking city, then,” but I don’t.
Instead, I swipe until my thumb is sore, every new face a lottery ticket I know won’t cash.
Somewhere in the middle of this, my brain serves up another Darius flashback, unprompted, me on the bench, watching him skate the crease, the way his jersey hung off his shoulders, the sweat stains at the collar, the casual violence of how he moved.
I remember the time he blocked a slap shot with his face, didn’t even flinch, just spit blood onto the ice and told the trainer to “do it quick.”
I wonder if he ever thought about me. I mean, really thought about me, or if it was always just about the game.
I click on the Grindr icon, open it, and brace for the flood of messages.
It’s exactly as bad as I remember, a wall of headless torsos, four guys with Eagles logos, one dude who only sends photos of his dog.
I get a message within ten seconds: “u masc?”
I type, “Masc as a flavor, not a gender. Is that a dealbreaker?”
The guy responds, “Lol no, u look hot. Wanna hang?”
I don’t answer. I scroll the grid, recognize two faces from the gym, one from the rink, and a third who I think once delivered my Postmates.
I close the app. I open Tinder again. The nurse, Jay, has written another message, “I’m off Friday. Want to grab a coffee?”
I type, “Maybe. Let’s see how the week goes.”
The second I send it, I regret it. It sounds like I’m too busy, which is a lie. The truth is I just want to be wanted by someone who doesn’t exist.
I toss the phone onto the coffee table.
It bounces, lands next to the red therapy receipt and the bottle of Advil that’s almost empty. I stare at the ceiling, which has a crack running straight from the smoke detector to the far wall.
I trace it with my eyes, over and over.
I remember the last time I saw Darius, the way he held the door for me at the gym, the way his hand landed on my shoulder, heavy and deliberate.
How for a split second I thought he’d say something real, but he just walked away.
I wonder what it would take to forget. I wonder if it’s even possible.
And then the thought I always come back to, the one that kills it every time: He has Nia. He's straight.
Whatever I saw in that shower, whatever I felt, it's not what I want it to be. He's not available, not like that. Not for me. I need to stop.
The phone buzzes again. I ignore it.
For a while, I just lie there, the blue light of the phone blinking in my periphery, a metronome of disappointment.
I try to picture myself at dinner with Jay, or walking the park with the marine biologist, or even just getting a drink with Aaron the tattoo bartender.
I try to make myself care.
But all my brain wants is to play the old tape. The shower. The hand on my chest. The way he said “Ash” instead of “Rosen,” like it mattered.
I close my eyes, try to will the thought away.
It doesn’t go.
