Feed and walk Lily. Go to The Red Kettle and apply primer. Start drawing the design. Lunch break. Go home to walk Lily. Back to The Red Kettle to finish drawing until the restaurant opens. Go home.
I wonder how I can squeeze in working on my dating app in there.
Deciding that the issue with my potential suitors is that my bio is not specific enough, I try to come up with an extremely detailed profile to put off anyone who would, you know, think about cryptocurrency as a turn on or take me swimming on the first date.
I know what I want.
A dinner date with the boy next door.
He’d be unforgivably handsome. He’d be sweet to his mother and would bake me a cake on my birthday. He’d call me every night before I go to sleep, even if we saw each other that same day. He would hold my hand when we walk in the park and buy me tea, not coffee. He’d give me a chaste kiss on the doorstep of my building after he walked me home. He’d tell me he loves me while we watch the city roll by from his secret spot, tucked away in a rooftop or park I’ve never been to.
He’d take care ofmefor once. I’d be his kind of woman and he’d love me for all of me, grief included. He’d say: “Darling, as long as I’m with you, I don’t care where we are.”
And I’d love him back just as much. I am determined to find him, no matter how guilty I feel. I deserve to be loved again. Grant would forgive me. He would not want to see me so lonely. Jae and the dating app are my first steps, and if that fails, then I’ll try again somehow. I’ll ask Melissa from the grief support group.
Feeling confident with my plan, I take Lily on a short walk around the block after feeding her breakfast. By the time we get back inside, she is content and ready for her mid-morning five hour long nap, several hours earlier than usual.
I refresh her water bowl and leave out some kibbles. It’s my first time leaving her for such a long period of time, and I’m worried about her more than myself. I shower her in a flurry of kisses before I grab my bag, paint in hand, lock the door, and make my way downstairs.
Outside, the morning air is crisp, even for April. Spring in New York City is my favorite; not even the vibrant leaves of Autumn compare to the baby blooms of magnolia and cherry blossom trees.
It is as if every year the city is reborn along with the crocuses and daffodils. The sure signs of spring are here, littering every block: ice cream trucks grabbing their parking spots after the street sweeper comes by; the fruit cart ladies sitting on their corners, selling mango with chamoy sauce under umbrellas; artists displaying their prints, even at this early hour.
Shops put signs outside, advertising their specials from two for one cinnamon buns to cheap cocktails. Elegant bouquets adorn outdoor dining tables, and joggers and bikers, decked in the trendiest workout gear in the open streets, make the coming warm weather feel especially promising..
I smile to myself and snap a photo of a pear tree adorning the side of a brick building to use as a painting reference. I make my way down the subway steps and lean on the steel beams on the platform. Six minutes until the next train.
I hesitantly open my dating app. No new matches. Of course. I hadn’t swiped on anyone since Derek. I open my profile and delete my current bio.
I type out:
Reserved woman seeks a funny, college educated man down for uncomplicated romancing. Pets must be OK.
There. That has to be off-putting enough to scare off the assholes and douches, but notsooff-putting it won’t scare off the good guys. I’m satisfied with that. I switch to the feed of potential suitors.
Troy, 28. Wannabe standup comic. Looking for a girl who can take a joke.
I can take a joke I think to myself and swipe right before I can stop myself. No match. Maybe he hasn’t seen me yet.
I lock my phone as the train arrives, ready to focus on art, and only art. I’m here to do a job. Thinking about painting makes my anxiety grow. It has been a long time since I painted something of this scale. I know it’s like riding a bike, once you get on and start pedaling, you remember how to do it, and all is well. It is the getting on part that makes me, and everyone else who is afraid, so nervous.
The train arrives at the station quickly, as it’s only a stop away. I could easily walk there, but with the paint in my bag, I don’t want to arrive looking like I ran a marathon. Sure enough, the restaurant has the lights on, and I can see a figure moving in the back. I try to open the door, but the bells only jingle. It’s locked.
I try rapping the glass door gently, waving my hands wildly, anything to get Jae’s attention. I know he’s in there. He’s wearing a chef’s white uniform with the embroidered patch on the breast pocket. He seems to be mopping. It sounds like he hasloud music playing from the back. He’s completely undisturbed by my knocking and waving.
I still can’t get his attention after knocking one more time, so my only choice is to call him and let him know I’m here.
I select the contact, Jae (Mural),and click “call”.
“Hello?”
“It’s Riley Chase. I’m here to paint the mural. I’m out front. Can you let me in? The door is locked.”
“Huh?” He answers, looking up. Jae walks towards the door and pulls it open with ease. “It’s unlocked.” Jae laughs, mop still in hand. “You just have to pull on it.”
I am immediately, unabashedly embarrassed. I knew I should have yanked on it harder. God, why does that sound so dirty? I turn an ungodly shade of tomato red, apologizing profusely.
“Sorry. I didn’t want it to look like I was trying to break in … I figured it was best to call you.”
