A Short Story by Jillian Dean
Swipe left. Swipe right.
Bumble. Tinder. Hinge. Forty-seven likes await you as you open the app after a long day. Yes, no, no, yes, no, yes, yes, no.
You’re cute. Insufferable conversation. Generically handsome boy asks if you ever come out his way because New Haven does have the best pizza after all. The “Tour de New Haven” he calls it, and you’re actually excited for this one.
You drive to New Haven, but no pizza this time. Some gastropub with New American bites and artisanal cocktails will have to do.
Order two beers and Brussels sprouts with bacon because he loves apps. He calls appetizers “apps”. Tells you people on welfare should “just get a job” and stop using drugs, but took Adderall to get through school. Loves capitalism. Always assumes he’s the expert on issues. Proud of himself for tweeting that women have a place in the working world, but thinks the left has just gone too far. Thinks climate change is a hoax, but is socially liberal. Try to engage in conversation, but you hate it. You hate him.
Nodding enthusiastically as he tells you all about himself. A doctor. Impressive. He tells you the story of how he heroically saved a patient’s life last week as an intern because he gave them a sodium blocker when the other doctors said they were fine and you still find yourself nodding along even though he meant calcium. Wrong. He is so fucking wrong.
Unable to listen to the rest of his spiel, you start to fixate on every little thing about him. His hair is perfectly coiffed—not too long, not too short. A wave with a dip in the front that bounces every time he talks. He’s clean shaven and his head is tilted slightly upwards in a way that makes it look like he’s smirking at you. A Patagonia—of course. He looks tired, maybe uninterested. You can tell he doesn’t really want to be here either, he just likes talking about himself and you indulge him.
He finally turns the conversation towards you and you tell him you like surfing and breweries and all the same things and for both your sakes you don’t order another round. He tells you he lives right around the corner and you can come over—only if you want to.
Bingo. There it is.
Back in your apartment you reach for your phone that’s been buzzing all night. Three text messages. One is definitely from your mom. Maybe he texted you. What if he didn’t? Why do you even care?
It’s him. “Hope you got home safely would love to see you again.”
Smile. He’s not that bad! He’s actually really sweet.
Swipe left. Swipe right.
Bumble. Tinder. Hinge. Can’t remember who is on which app anymore.
Oh, he’s cute. Forget the other one—you didn’t even like him anyway.
Good job, tolerable conversation. You exchange numbers and weeks go by and you make small talk and then big talk and he asks to meet and says he’s been dying for some New Haven Pizza—oh my fucking God liking pizza isn’t a substitute for a personality and liking appetizers doesn’t make you a foodie.
Oh, and he mentions he’s moving across the country, but long distance doesn’t bother him. So, you say yes—because he might be the one and what’s one more night out of your life, really.
Stand awkwardly at a Mediterranean wine bar until they squeeze you in at a high top over on the side. He’s cute in a way that your grandmother would pick him out for you. Kind of doughy face with a genuine smile. He says he’s sorry pizza didn’t work out, Greenwich is just much easier for him. Order wine, order apps. He loves apps.
He scans you up and down and you watch him nodding along as you tell him all the things you know he’s not even listening to. Your dirty blonde hair that’s perfectly done, but undone. Eye makeup—not too heavy, just a swipe of mascara. His eyes trace your pronounced collarbones as he looks you up, and down. Just jeans and a sweater.
What is he thinking? Say anything.
Watch his eyes come back into this dimension as he mutters under his breath how incredible the Brussels sprouts and rice balls are.
Repeat it back as a question and smile and nod as he aggressively shoves food onto your plate. Tell him yes, you love apps. Say yes when he asks if you want more, but not too much. Say yes, you love tapas, because who doesn’t? Nod enthusiastically and say you could have drinks and apps every night of the week. Say you like wineries. Say you like breweries. Say yes to New Haven Pizza. Say no to deep dish. Say you like it all, too.
When he turns the conversation back onto you, you find yourself telling him everything you think he wants to hear. You travel all the time. Lie. You love winter sports. Lie. You love the outdoors and going on long hikes. Lie, lie, lie. Tell him all the things you wish were true about yourself and for what, because you don’t even know if you like him or not and who cares what he thinks anyway.
He smiles. He’s intrigued.
Eager for a reason to show off his camera roll, he swiftly grabs his phone off the table and shows you all the pictures from his last hiking excursion in Arizona with his family, and tells you the story about how he got lost and needed to get rescued. Great, they’re a family who goes on camping trips. He accidentally swipes too far and shows you a photo of the whole family running a 5k on Thanksgiving. Even better. Truth be told, you can’t imagine which scenario is worse.
You start to think about how you’re sitting across from this random person you never would have met otherwise, thank you Bumble, Tinder, or Hinge.
The night closes with a hug and a kiss, and a, get home safe and it might be all the wine, but you manage to convince yourself you might actually like this one. And, you’re overly cautious when it comes to dating. You fail to see the green flags because you only see the red ones, but he’s what you call wholesome and you’re close-minded.
But, days go by and every time you get a text your heart skips a beat. Worried it won’t be him, worried will be him. Probably just another dick pic.
So, you text him. He tells you he enjoyed meeting you, but he just doesn’t think he has enough time to see you again before he moves.
Are you fucking kidding me?
Whatever. You didn’t even like him that much anyways.
Swipe left. Swipe left.
Feel nothing.
