Then, as Rae was taking in how the girl’s heels confidently clicked on the pavement, the girl fell down. A car hit her, not pausing for the pedestrian “walk” signal. Rae called 911, and Ellen was taken to the hospital with a fractured wrist. That afternoon, Rae visited, bringing a dozen bagels in lieu of flowers.
She’d worried that Ellen might be a “no carbs” type, but Ellen gleefully devoured the bagels, looking much less glamorous as she spilled crumbs on her hospital gown.
After the ex-boyfriend-cheating-with-the-roommate scandal, Rae broke her lease and moved in with Ellen, who’d been trying to fill the second bedroom of a “historic West Village penthouse” she’d fallen in love with at first sight. Ellen’s roommate search hadn’t been going particularly well—most prospects backed out once they realized it was a prewar walk-up building, and the ones who made it up the stairs were put off by the minor detail that the second bedroom didn’t actually exist yet. Several tenants had still been interested, given the relatively attractive price point and objectively attractive location, but Ellen vetoed prospect after prospect for “roommate red flags,” which included not eating ice cream or being picky about drinking onlychilledwhite wine.
“The universe wants us to be there for each other when we’re hurting,” Ellen had proclaimed as she and Rae cosigned the Perry Street lease. “First the car accident, and now this.”
“What about this one?” Rae said now, and showedTIM, 28to her mentor.
After a full profile review, stretching nearly six seconds, Ellen approved. “Great smile. Very genuine. And I like that he’s from North Carolina—southern guys are more chivalrous. And he has dogs in three pictures, so he must have a really kind heart.”
“I know,” Rae said, wondering what she should wear to Thanksgiving with Tim’s family next year. Perhaps a sundress with a light jacket, but she’d pack layers to be safe. “He’s perfect.”
“Find out if he has a brother, will you? We could double-date.”
“I’ll ask once we meet in the flesh. I hope he circles back with a cute date idea.”
“Rae-bae, you’re going to have to overcome your old-fashioned guy-asks-girl-out views if you want to find your diamond in the dating app rough,” Ellen said.
Maybe it was a consequence of her Midwest roots, but Rae still wanted to sit back and be courted. In every other part of her life—advocating for herself at work, pushing her way onto the crowded subway, hailing a cab so it didn’t whiz right by—she had to be tough and aggressive. When it came to love, she wanted to be quiet and soft and have her perfect man swoop in when she least expected it, like in the romance books she didn’t have time to read anymore. But if she waited for that to happen, she’d be waiting forever, well into her thirties, when she’d no doubt look back and curse her idealistic twenty-five-year-old self for not taking more initiative.
“Fine,” Rae told Ellen, not feeling very fine at all. “What should I say?”
“Just say, ‘Hey, Tim! Want to get drinks next week?’”
Rae typed the phrase verbatim, proofread it three times, and sent it off into cyberspace with a jolt of adrenaline.
She began swiping faster to hedge her heart with more options, and also snacking faster to relieve the correlated anxiety.
“Just remember,” Ellen said. “It’s not personal if he doesn’t reply. Guys ghost me about half the time.”
This didn’t bode well. If fifty percent of guys were ignoring Ellen, whose profile was an unattainable mesh of glamour-meets-girl-next-door, Rae would be lucky to achieve a ten percent response rate.
“Got it,” Rae said, though she knew that of course she would take it personally if Tim ignored her and of course she would devour a pint of ice cream calling him a series of defiling names. “So how’s your own pipeline looking?” she asked.
“Can we please not use work jargon to describe our dating lives? It’s so unromantic.”
“Ellen, we’ve outsourced our dating pool to an algorithm. The app has removed the romanticism, not me.”
“It’s okay to be practical,” Ellen said. “But not transactional.”
“Practical not transactional,” Rae repeated, jotting down the acronym PNT. “Got it. Any dates lined up this week?”
“I have a first date tomorrow with Sean.” She showed Rae the profile of a thirty-year-old who worked as a corporate-grade bond investor. “We’re the same age, once you adjust for gender,” Ellen explained. “Since women’s brains are three years more mature than their actual age and men’s brains are three years less mature.”
Rae was intrigued by this numbers-based way to compare compatibility. “So you’re twenty-four but have the maturity of a twenty-seven-year-old? And he’s thirty but actually twenty-seven?”
“Exactly,” Ellen said, looking pleased with her contribution to the science of modern love. “So stay away from anyone under twenty-eight. They’re still children.”
“Too bad women don’t have that luxury of growing up slowly,” Rae grumbled. “How unfair is it that men don’t have to worry about a biological clock? They can keep playing the field for as long as they want and then have kids in their old age with no negative ramifications. Talk about systemic sexism.” This had become her new favorite rant, and she hadn’t grown tired of recycling it yet.
“I know,” Ellen agreed. “It’s a cruel joke from our creator.”
“I mean, given how much humans have evolved over thousands of years, you would’ve thought thatjust maybewomen’s childbearing years could’ve been extended to keep up with the increased life-span. But no, that would just be too much equality, wouldn’t it?”
“I’m with you,” Ellen said, but then switched the conversation back to her dating lineup. “I might go on a second date with Billy.”
Rae was still mulling over the biological injustice of being a woman, and it took her a few moments before she remembered to reply. “Which one is Billy again?”
