“You tryna fuck?” she reads aloud. “God. Can’t you swipe left or something?”
“I could,” I tell her, deleting the first message that snuckthrough before I repaused my Tinder account. “But then I’m left with these.”
I hand my phone to Zola and watch as her face flashes fromintrigue…toconfusion…andconcern…before landing squarely athorror.Like one of those little flip-books from when we were kids. The modern-day dating experience in thirty gruesome seconds or less.
She holds my phone out between her thumb and pointer before dropping it into my hand like it’s radioactive. “I feel like I should go to the clinic after reading those.”
“Little late for that,” I say, nodding toward her stomach as I carry our bags out of the store.
We make our way through the lot as Zola physically shakes off the messages that I’m sure will haunt her for years to come.
“Why are you even on there?” she asks once we reach the car. “Those guys are the stuff local news stories are made of. And look at you.”
“Oh relax. Great women have been having mediocre sex with terrible men since the dawn of time.”Probably.“There’s nothing wrong with soliciting a consensual dick pic every now and then.”
“There is if you’re doing it to avoid actual conversations with men who don’t speak in innuendos and eggplant emojis. Real-life, grown men who understand that the wordhellomust precede a request that you sit on their face.”
After loading the back seat with what would appear to be the take from a grocery heist committed by a couple of six-year-olds, I join Zola up front.
“I know too much aboutgrown mento want to have conversations with them. This way it’s like visiting monkeys at the zoo—fun, but from a safe distance, so there’s minimal risk of them flinging shit in your face and then ripping it clean off.”
Her black-brown eyes roll so far into her head that for amoment, they’re all whites and spider lashes. That’s when you know she’sall the wayover you.
“You’re better than this,” she says, pulling out of her parking space.
I tear a donut in half, handing Zola the smaller piece. “I promise you I’m not.”
“How long has it been since you went out with someone?”
“I—”
She holds up her donut to stop me. “In real life, in public, with your clothes on.”
I shrink back into my seat. “Oh. Well, yeah, that’s different.”
I open my mouth to continue pleading my case, but Zola interrupts me again. “Shit, hold that thought. I gotta pee.”
She spins the wheel back toward the store’s entrance, ignoring my protests—we’re only a few minutes from home, can’t you hold it, etc.—and mumbles something about baby heads and bladders, before hopping out.
—
I start my Netflix search while I wait for Zo to return. Her movie night viewing habits demand that I make our selection before she gets a chance to weigh in—lest I spend the next several hours stuck in a raspy Kate Hudson, smiley Julia Roberts rom-com haze. But a tap on the window distracts me from my perusal.
The man waves, as if he’s expecting me to return the gesture. I don’t.
“Do you need something?” I say, from behind the closed window. Despite the fact that it’s the middle of the day and there are countless people passing in and out of the overpriced grocery store beside me, I still double-check the car door locks.Ways Not to Die 101.
He smiles at the realization that we’ll be doing this at full volume. I don’t return that gesture either.
“You can’t park here,” he says, still blinding me with teeth so white they’re glowing.
My eyes drop to his chest, in search of a green grocery apron, police badge, or something else to explain his presence, but he’s got on a simple gray T-shirt and blue jeans. The relaxed outfit offsets his square chin and prominent cheekbones in a way that screams,Sure I’m a model, but look—I’m just like the rest of you mortals.
Admittedly the clothing choice is working for him. Accentuating a physique that’s very likelynotthe result of afternoon car donuts. It feels like a personal attack that he looks that good in such a haphazard outfit while I currently look like thebeforeon a transformation post. And can someone please explain why nature wastes perfectly curled lashes and flawless skin on Black men while the rest of us go broke on mascara and concealer, trying to keep up?
He mistakes my inaction for confusion.
“You’re in front of the hydrant,” he explains further. “You can’t be parked here.”
