1
Any other night, upon hearingmy vibrator’s garbled last gasp, I’d give myself a mental lecture on personal responsibility and shimmy back into my underwear. It’s my own fault for having organizational practices that are more feral than feng shui. That charger could be anywhere. But I’d been depending on the familiar distraction—battery operated as it may be—to ward off my mental crisis—existential asitmay be.
I swap out the lifeless pink silicone in my hand for the phone, but somewhere between the lock screen and my six emotional support streaming accounts, an errant swipe pulls up the hours-old notification that sent me rummaging through my nightstand in the first place. There’s nothing for my landlord and me to discuss; he knows I can’t afford the lease renewal alone.Iknow I can’t afford the lease renewal alone. We just disagree as to whether or not that warrants a phone call.
I kick free of the bedsheets. No comfort watch is going to be enough to turn my brain off tonight. I’m still in need of an out-of-my-headfull bodycomfort of sorts. So, biting back the bitter taste of preemptive regret, I swan dive into the seventh circle of hell, unpausing myin case of emergencydating apps. If silencingthis mounting quarter-life dread doesn’t constitute an emergency, I don’t know what does.
The bars on Mass Ave. close in thirty minutes, so there’s no time for discretion. I’ve got to be quick if I want to get in on the desperate apocalypse now Tinder scramble that’s already underway out there. So, bomb fishing it is—swiping right on anyone in this half-empty college town who looks like they might be up-to-date on their shots.
A flurry of new messages signals my success—a word I’m usingextremelyloosely at the moment.
Peter (28) comments on one of my mirror selfies: “Wife!” With a few heart emojis for good measure. No doubt it’s meant to be a compliment, but with that hairline, the word reads more like a threat. Godspeed, Peter.
“Hey!” writes J (34). “You’re absolutely stunning. Would love to take you out and get to know you.” Sorry, J, but if you’re only giving up one letter, I’d bet there’s one word to describe your actual relationship status: married. Send my regards to the Mrs.
Carlos (32) wants to know, “Do you enjoy cooking? Do you like to dance? Do you enjoy a good film? Do you vote? What’s the last book you read? Do you hope to own a house one day?” And without even pausing to confirm that I’m present and accounted for, or at the very least, human, he continues waving his red flags high. “I’m looking for my soulmate. Marriage, kids. Let’s make sure we’re on the same page.”
Not even on my darkest day, Carlos.
“We’re all energetic beings,” says Marcus (30). “All matter’s made up of atoms, with charged particles, that vibrate at a certain frequency, also known as energy.” Damn. It’s always the cute ones.
And Lawrence (25) can’t even spare the thumb dexterity required to tap a question mark when he asks, “Wyd”
He’s perfect.
Me:How fast can you get Downtown?
—
I’ve watched enoughDatelineover the years to know that giving Lawrence my home address may very well have just set the stage for my own one-hour special. Which is why I also know I have to do this next thing:
2:34am
Me:Hey, just in case
I send the text along with a screenshot of Lawrence’s profile and my location (or last known whereabouts, should things end poorly).
If I’d known Zola was up, I would’ve texted one of the other ten million or so infinitely less judgmental people in the world. My sister’s been reliably knocked out by sundown since that little pink plus on a stick changed everything, but I must’ve caught her mid-bathroom run or in the throes of a WebMD doom spiral, self-diagnosing rare birth anomalies.
Even thepingmy phone makes when she responds sounds unusually shrill.
2:36am
Zola:Jesus Kai. You of all people know how dangerous this is.
She’s not wrong.
I may have slightly understated my true crime–viewing habits. It’s not just that “I’ve watched enoughDateline.” It’s that I’ve memorized entire seasons of crime scene evidence, could rank my top fifty episodes chronologically, and in addition to recognizing the actors in various dramatizations, I can also recite their past credits as jilted lovers, handsome bartenders, or hiker#3.
But I’m not trying to get into all that while I speed-shave in the bathroom sink.
Zola:me and Eliza use your “dates” as a scare tactic in client meetings now
Her text doesn’t achieve its maximum impact since I could’ve scripted the exchange myself. Nothing in this world gives Zo more joy than talking shit on other people’s life choices, and in Eliza, she found a boss who promised to reward her for it. I still can’t believe professional matchmaking is actually a thing, but apparently Manhattan’s elite are just lonely enough to liquidate retirement accounts for their shot athappily ever after.
Me:Shouldn’t I have to sign a waiver for that?
Zola:Says the woman inviting strange men over without one.
