Swipe

“What happened?”

I sip. “We were too different.”

“Like how?”

“Small example.”

“Everything’s important.”

“She wanted me to wear pajamas.”

* * *

It starts with the swipe, each flick of the finger weighing personal preferences, wild assumptions, and crass logistics, and you stack up matches and get them chatting, across multiple apps, measure the qualities and curiosity of each potential partner, then loop some into actual in-person meetings, where you read into every aside and speculate on potential faults, think on the others you were or could be chatting with, how this one is not quite right and easily replaced, while they’re in the bathroom if you’re quick, and you’re off.

* * *

“How do you define love?”

I stumble. “Well, that’s a good question. Tough one. Okay, it’s … like, when you complete the other, entirely, and when you’re apart, you feel that longing, that ache. Like, you aren’t whole, when you aren’t … I’m not explaining it well.”

She sips.

“What’s your answer?”

“Love is an active choice. It’s not whether or not I need you. I don’t, I’m doing great. It’s ‘Do I want you on a daily basis? Can you complement and magnify my life?’”

“Oh. That’s good.”

She checks the time.

* * *

My date has five-year-old photos, but we have a few glasses of wine and a good-enough time and next thing we’re necking in my car, idling in her driveway, and I’m grabbing and she’s leaning and I’m thinking maybe; then she slips out of the car and I text when I’m home, and soon we’re on the books for dinner, but next day I consider my other options, and the time and money spent driving half across town and paying half a fancy bill, with the price of gas these days, and all the enthusiasm drifts right away, and I send a generic Dear Joan and shy into shadow.

* * *

“I’m going to take a break from the apps.”

He shifts. “How are you going to meet someone?”

“Hopefully in real life.”

“But you don’t go anywhere.”

“I could try a hobby.”

That night, I download a new one.

* * *

There’s a dance we do, a game of reading messages immediately because we’re glued to our phones, then letting the right amount of time slip by before we respond, so we don’t appear too available, and you know you’ve broken through when there’s little delay, when the message arrives, and a response soon after, no shame remaining, pure unfiltered communication, but maybe that tap is coming out too strong and there’s no going back, and now you’re ping-ponging every few minutes while you’re just trying to watch a movie and you haven’t even met this person in person yet. How could there possibly be this much to say?

* * *

“Tell me something good.”

“Like what?”

“Anything.”

I tell a long story about being lost in Vienna.

“Do you have any jokes?”

* * *

We walk past every varietal of tree, bush, and flower, stopping sometimes for a longer gander, then find shade, and I sit near the middle and she sits far away and lays out a vague account of her relationship history, not getting into the important nitty-gritty, but making ominous nods toward possible issues, and every ten minutes or so, she asks me a question, maybe two, rapid fire for short response, then launches into another monologue, not even needing me there, and we walk back hand in hand.

* * *

“We were just too different, maybe 80 percent compatible, and that was great, but there were some core issues. Like, she didn’t want to dance at a wedding.”

She laughs. “You broke up this year?”
“In July. But I’ve had a few flings.”

“How do you define a fling?”

“Seeing someone for a little while, and it fizzles out.”

“Right.”

“When was your last relationship?”

“I had more of a situationship, before I moved out here. Did not see a future, so it was time to leave.”

“Nice and clean.”

“For me.”

* * *

When the present is empty and the future can’t come quick enough, all you have is the past, your former lives and lost loves and all the best and biggest regrets you can cycle through, the chances you could’ve taken, the doors you never should’ve opened, any and every little thing that may be entirely insignificant, but there is nothing else so here is this shadow to occupy your time, to explain why you’re alone, why: the last one rejected you, your relationship failed, you aren’t getting enough quality matches, your friends haven’t texted back, strangers dodge you at grocery stores, you have become an unrelenting black hole that swallows joy and must be avoided.

* * *

“What’d you think?”

I remember every time she cheered and snapped and clapped. “It was fun.”

“I loved it.”

“Yeah.”

We hug awkwardly, barely make contact, and I shut the car door and shout, “She has the worst taste.”

Then look up, to see if she heard me, and she’s out of sight.

Out of mind.

* * *

This time I mean it, to actually step away from the apps, left-swipe on the whole process, and rest with some good old-fashioned analog improvement, more reading and writing and rowing and all the right words I can wrangle, and after all that improvement, I’ll need more, updated photos, of my new and improved self, in attractive lighting, maybe a time stamp to prove that this best-looking photo is the one you can expect, you have to envision the end goal, the long-term advertising campaign — the biceps have to pop, we’ll focus on curls.

* * *

“Can I get you anything?”

“Just water for now. Two glasses.”

He’s skeptical.

I twiddle thumbs, tap toes, look up and around and back down.

Check my phone again.

* * *

After the last date that went well, I texted that night and she came back cold, and now I’m in my head, unsure how soon I should text this new one, despite our warm hug and seemingly genuine assurances we had a lovely time and should do it again soon, so I drive and draft a text and demolish it, resolve to play it cool, then come back more casual, just a check-in, still not quite right (and who the hell let these people on the road, do rules no longer apply?), mull it all over, until I get through the door, hit the couch, consider, and send a brief exclamation and nod to the future, spend twenty minutes sweating it out, assure myself I jumped the gun again and scared this poor woman away, why won’t I — she texts two exclamations and all is right in the world.

* * *

“I loved the lake.”

She scoffs. “Which lake?”

“You know, the main one. With the turtles, and that island in the middle.”

“Oh that’s the tourist lake. I lived by the local one, on the other side.”

“Don’t think I made it over there.”

“So you didn’t see Hanoi.”

I finish my drink.

* * *

On the way to another first date, I mull over my next explanation for my last breakup, and yes we were fundamentally incompatible, but I didn’t deal with that information, I bottled it into resentment and gradually lost the light of love, became more passive and less active in making her feel wanted and a part of my life, until it was inevitable that we break up, I forced the issue into a slow burnout, not a quick flame or a reworking and rekindling into a long-term, proper bonfire, which was never really in the cards, but I certainly didn’t help, and I need to be more active, more vocal, more passionate, more present — I need to be more.

* * *

“I went to Portugal in July, with my ex.”

“What happened?”

I consider my new self-knowledge, past excuses, and how much to divulge to this prospect, who I’m uncertain of, but she could become a person of interest, there’s strong potential, so I need to be forthcoming and still reflect a shining self-image, a person to be trusted and adored, not abandoned to the digital scrap heap.

She waits.

“Love wasn’t enough.”