by Lisa Lace
“I have Fifi’s number. I’ll just have to do it the old-fashioned way, won’t I?”
“Remind me, what’s the ‘old-fashioned way”?”
“The classic sext.” I grin at him. “Come on, Dennis! Don’t tell me you don’t remember being a horny teenager with your first cellphone.”
“I wrote letters.”
I snort. “Are you kidding me?”
“What? There’s nothing wrong with a bit of old-school romance.”
It doesn’t surprise me. I would bet that Dennis was a band geek in school or leader of the science club. Even now, with his giant square glasses and flat brown hair, most people would probably call him a dweeb.
“You handwrote your sex messages?”
He raises an eyebrow. “I was more a love poem kind of guy.” He laughs at himself. “I thought I was such a Casanova, but it never had the desired effect. Even now, you’re the one with Sophia wrapped around your little finger, while I haven’t had a date in months. Not that you’d know anything what that’s like, King Tinder.”
I try to hide my smile. It was true—I’d had more luck on the dating app than most guys I knew. All it took was a handsome profile picture—and I guess you could say that I wasn’t the worst-looking guy in the world. I’m just touching six-foot-tall, with olive skin clinging to last summer’s tan, and dark blond hair that seems to fall naturally into a style that looks carefully planned. It probably also helps that I work out, and I’m not afraid to flash my abs on my profile.
“Formerly King Tinder. I’m with Fifi now.”
“You are? You’ve stopped seeing the others?”
“I was never really ‘seeing’ them. It was only a couple of dates while I got to know the girls.”
“While you were playing the field, you mean.”
“Just looking for the right woman.”
“Uh-huh. And if you fall into the beds of several others along the way, that’s just how it goes, right?” He makes a face. “You make it look too easy, Cole. So, you’re with Sophia now—sorry, Fifi.” He raises his eyebrows.
“It’s a nickname.”
“She sounds like your pet cat.”
I laugh, then shrug. “I didn’t pick it.”
“When are you seeing her again?”
“I’m not sure. She’s flying out to Milan this week to see her folks.”
“Italian, too. Typical.”
“You could find a nice woman yourself if you lost that chip on your shoulder.”
“And got laser eye surgery and a six-hundred-dollar haircut.”
I focus my lens on a sweet moment between the bride’s parents, snapping them holding hands across the table, then turn back to Dennis. “You have to stop feeling sorry for yourself. Women appreciate a man with confidence.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Seriously; all it takes is confidence and a little bit of charm. I mean, if this guy can do it—” I point my thumb toward the groom, standing on his tiptoes to share a kiss with the bride— “then a bad haircut shouldn’t stop you. Look. You can tell she’s crazy about him.”
Dennis pats his head self-consciously, then sets his camera to record once more. “Enough of this chat. Shooting weddings is bad enough without hearing about your effortless sexual escapades.”
“You’re right. Shooting weddings is bad enough.”
Dennis casts me a sympathetic smile and returns to recording the party.
I know why he’s looking at me like that. Not so long ago, I was an internationally-renowned photojournalist, traveling the globe and getting ahead of some of the biggest headlines worldwide. I faced searing heat and deadly environments; I had to figure out how to capture once-in-a-generation historical events in clear, sharp, poignant focus. Now, my biggest challenge is how to make two people look kind of the same size.
How the mighty have fallen.
Sophie
I love Latte Latte, the coffee shop a block away from my little New York apartment. It’s a cozy little joint where single moms and college kids come to hang out on the squishy sofas and take pictures of the specialty-foam art. My latte is topped with a foam kitten with cocoa whiskers.
I come here with Lena at least twice a week to gossip and share a laugh. To sit in a big, comfy armchair, holding a giant mug of fresh coffee, makes me feel like I’m on the cast of Friends—pretending I don’t have a job or responsibilities beyond sitting here, wasting time with my sister.
Lena has a lot more time to waste than me. She’s only four years older, but she’s a machine. She started to let go of the managerial reigns of her five-store chain of restaurants about a year ago, and now she seems to spend most of her time hanging out in coffee shops and checking in on me. Meanwhile, I work as a bank teller, spending most of my time explaining why no, I can’t cash a blank check or tell you what your wife has been paying for from her personal account.
As usual, Lena’s latest concern is my love life.
She’s sitting back, wearing brightly colored floral harem pants and a trendy lavender blouse with a V-neck fringe, her glimmering gel nails closed around her cup, her inquisitive blue eyes focused solely on me. Her short blond hair is cut into a neat, professional pixie, her lips colored with a matte lavender lipstick.
I’m still wearing my work clothes: a slightly creased short-sleeved white blouse and a pair of grey pants that now have a coffee-ring stain on them from laughing too hard while my mug was resting on my lap. At least my long, light hair is neat—it has always been dead straight and tangle-free.
I brush it back out of my face and tuck it behind my ears so I can better look at the screen of my cellphone in Lena’s hand. We’re on Tinder—again—passing our time by ogling available local men.
“How about this one?” Lena asks, showing me the profile picture of a boyish late twenty-something man with a beard and a beanie hat. She reads from his profile: “‘I’m an adventurer who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. Looking for a woman who’s not afraid to get dirty either.’—It ends with a winky face.” She grins at me. “Not hitting the spot, Soph?”
I roll my eyes. “Those come-ons make me cringe.” I look down at my coffee and mimic, “I like my men like I like my coffee—hot and twice in the morning.”
Lena hoots with laughter. “That’s a good one!” She glances at the coffee table between us for inspiration. “I like my men like I like my muffins—big and in my mouth.”
“Lena!” I shriek, bursting into giggles. “That’s disgusting!”
“Your turn.”
“Hmm. I like my women like I like my napkins—folded in half and ready to get messy.”
Lena doubles over, her eyes creasing with laughter. “That’s way worse than mine! Why aren’t these winners on your profile?”
“The kind of men who use lines like that aren’t my type.”
“Such as Mark from Manhattan? ‘Did you sit in a pile of sugar? Because that ass is sweet.’”
I scoff, sending a little coffee shooting into my nasal passage. I wipe my nose with a napkin and make a face. “Really? Is that supposed to work?”
Lena turns the phone toward me. “Mark from Manhattan also has a sweet ass.”
I look at the picture of the man in full ski gear, his helmet under his arm, posing against a backdrop of pristine snowy mountains. He’s facing those mountains, looking back over his shoulder with a cheeky grin, that sweet ass hugged by Lycra.
“Wow. That’s quite something.” I lean in. “It’s a bit round, though. I like a nice square butt. You know, something with a bit of sculpting to it.”
“Right. How about this one?”
“Ah, the classic mirror selfie.” She shows me a picture of a man in nothing but a tight pair of boxer briefs, flexing in front of a mirror. The reflection shows a room with clothes and Xbox games strewn around the floor. Hardly the greatest advertisement for a sophisticated man. “Don’t you think that’s vain?”
“If you’ve got it, flaunt it, I guess.”
“I wish there were some smart or funny men flaunting those qualities.”
“What about this one?”
She shows me Lucas, who is posing against a crammed bookshelf in his picture, sitting in a leather wing chair, wearing tweed. His profile says he’s twenty-seven, but his receding hairline and visible liver spots on the back of his hand are more suggestive of a man in his fifties.
“Oh, my God. Do you think that ever works?”
Lena flashes the guy’s picture at me, putting on a deep, manly voice. “Don’t you want to kiss me, Sophie?”
“Absolutely not.”
“But his profile says he speaks three languages.”
“Looks like he’s had the time to learn.”
She turns her attention back to the app, poking her tongue out devilishly. “I’m going to swipe right on a few.”
“Don’t!”
Swiping right on the app meant there was a chance you would match with the person if they swiped right on your picture, too. I could envision my inbox flooded with messages from strange men.
I try to take my cell from Lena, but she holds me off with an outstretched arm, laughing maniacally as her thumb swipes relentlessly right across the screen.
“Oh no!” She teases. “Men might actually talk to you!”
She must have swiped right on a dozen men before I manage to get my cell back. I sigh and tuck it in my purse.
Lena is still chuckling as she takes a bite of her muffin. “You haven’t even told me how the last date went. What was his name again?”
“Charlie.”
“Oh, yes. Charlie, whose profile didn’t contain the slightest hint of personality.”
“Or a gross pick-up line.”
“So, how was he in real life?”
I chew on the inside of my lip. From the corner of my eye, I can see Lena smirking. She gives me a little push. “Tell me!”
I throw my hands up. “Possibly the most boring man I’ve ever met.”
She laughs. “What do you expect? If you veto anyone with any hint of cheekiness or sex drive, you’re going to end up with dullards.”
“He started the conversation by listing every item in his entomology collection.”
“Entomology?”
“He collects bugs.”
“Wow.”
“Yup. Apparently, he has the fourth-largest collection of beetles in the USA.”
“That’s quite something.”
“According to Charlie, it was. He went on about it for hours. ‘People commonly refer to spiders as insects. This is a common misconception. They are, in fact, anthropods.’”
“At least you learned something.”
I raise my eyebrows and take a sip of my latte, disappointed to see half the kitten dissolve. I lick some remaining froth off my bottom lip.
“Like I said, Sophie, if you won’t deviate from your criteria, you’ll never be pleasantly surprised—only bored.”
“Edward wasn’t a bore,” I say defensively, dabbing at my lips with a napkin.
“Just a raging misogynist.”
I chuckle. “I wouldn’t describe it as misogyny. I think he even called himself a feminist at one point.”
“Ah yes, because all feminists like to be informed they’ll be going Dutch before the date even starts.”
“I thought it was fair.”
“Hardly romantic, though. And what about that creepy guy?”
“Simon, the sniffer?”
“Yes, him!”
I shudder at the memory of my date with Simon the dentist— who felt it was appropriate to hold my hand like a drowning man while we were lining up for tickets and then conspicuously and audibly take deep whiffs of my hair every few seconds throughout the movie, which also turned out to be complete crap.
“I think you should take a new approach,” Lena says.
“Which is?”
“Let your hair down. Feel that hot, single blood running in your veins, and accept that it’s normal, as a grown woman, to feel turned on occasionally. Be pulled in by that cheeky one-liner; let yourself bask in the cringe of a come-on that’s packed with suggestion. See how it feels to let those bunched-up panties drop.”
“Let them drop?”
“Metaphorically.”
I raise an eyebrow, licking my finger and pressing it down over the remaining cookie crumbs on my plate, idly putting them in my mouth.
“You know me. I’d die if I tried to sext someone.”
“Why? If you don’t get into it, then you never meet them. Block them, move on. If you do get into it, then there’s a chance you might actually get to have some fun.”
“I don’t find casual sex fun.”
“What about flirting? Dating? Wearing a pair of underwear that you wouldn’t find in grandma’s dresser?”
“Hey!”
“I’m just saying, Sophie; it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for you to let your hair down a little. You’ve tried filtering these men based on whatever ridiculously complicated checklist you have in your head, and it’s getting you nowhere. Give out your number to the first three men who message you. Go on—I dare you.”
“I don’t know, Lena.”
She frowns, turning toward me, taking my hands, and shaking them up and down in exasperation. “Come on! Are you really going to let the world’s shortest marriage turn you into a spinster for the rest of your life?”
I draw in a sharp breath. Mention of my six weeks as Mrs. Tanner still makes me flinch. Then, the feeling passes, and I chuckle. It was a crazy marriage, a long time ago.
“Do you really think that has anything to do with it? It was ten years ago.”
“And a decade later, you’re still single.”
“It’s not like I haven’t been on dates.”
“Sure, I know. But it’s time to really put yourself out there. You’re thirty-two now. It’s time that you found someone. Life’s passing you by. You need a little romance in your life, and, God forbid, a little sensuality.”
“Point taken, Lena. I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think. Do. You can’t refuse a dare.”
“Didn’t you just say I was thirty-two?” I tease, chuckling. “I’m not sure I’m still bound by a double-dog dare.”
She shrugs, casting me a knowing smile, and letting out a small, disappointed breath. “It’s up to you, Sophie. As long as you’re happy.”
Due to Lena’s sneaky swiping, I have five matches by the time I get home to my apartment after work. I kick off my shoes at the door, head straight to the sofa, and flop down with my cell in my hand. I open messages from the first three men.
Connor—five miles away—has sent me a simple and classic “Hi.”
Dave, a personal trainer with very thick eyebrows, has sent me, “Looking hot, girl.”
The third potential suitor, Noah, has made a bit more of an effort with, “You’re a banker? Maybe I can take you out some time after work.” At least he’s read my profile.
I scroll through their profiles to try and figure out whether there might be any chance of a genuine spark with any of them.
Connor is fairly attractive, I suppose. He has dark blond hair and olive skin. He looks like he might have quite the body, too. You could say that fit blonds are my type, I guess. Although the last tanned blond you dated became your husband.
My skin prickles at the thought of the man I married. “Married” isn’t really the word I’d use for it, in hindsight. We eloped. A long time ago.
I quickly switch to Dave’s profile. He’s broad-shouldered and square-headed. He looks cartoonishly blocky and square. Still, I’m not superficial—at least he’s not blond. His hair is a light brown.
According to his profile, the third guy, Noah, is an IT Consultant. In his profile picture, he’s sitting in front of a half-circle of monitors, a call-center headset on his head. He’s grinning widely, wearing a crisp blue shirt. He looks like a stock image from customerservice.com.
None of them really float my boat, but Lena’s words are ringing in my head. Are you really going to let the world’s shortest marriage turn you into a spinster for the rest of your life?
I fire off the same message to all three: “Text me,” plus my number. Then I place my cell face-down on the coffee table, my heart pounding. My ears feel hot; I’m flushed.
I usually spend weeks vetting the men I connect with online before reluctantly agreeing to a date in a pre-agreed public setting. Giving out my number off the cuff seems reckless.
Maybe a little exciting, too, though?
Cole
My head is still ringing with the lyrics of Thinking Out Loud as I step into my apartment. It’s an apartment I both love and hate, a remnant of my former success.
It’s a mid-size apartment on the eighth floor with a great view over midtown Manhattan. Over the tops of the buildings, the Broadway skyline is just visible, its lights flickering. I’m right in the center of New York life, a subway’s ride away from Times Square and the Rockefeller Center.
That used to excite me, but now I find it depressing. These days it seems that I’m always on the sidelines of someone else’s fantastic memory. Broadway has become too familiar. I hardly take note of the theatre now.
The city reminds me of how I felt after winning my first major award and making enough money for the deposit—and the first day I had those keys in my hands. I remember some of the greyscale landscapes I shot when I first moved here, back when I appreciated nothing more than all the potential and promise of New York.
I still have one of those landscapes printed on a canvas on my wall, next to dozens of my other works. The black-and-white felt artistic at the time, but now it seems bleak.
The greatest shots of my short and glistening career also adorn the walls. There’s the shot of a US soldier with a thousand-yard stare looking over ruins in Afghanistan, while another soldier tries to resuscitate a young girl in the background. I won a prize for that image; the award hangs in a frame beside the picture.
It’s hot as hell out here. I’m trying to lay low, but I stand out like a sore thumb. I’ve been sitting in what’s left of the village, waiting for the US Army to pass through. I’m not supposed to be here.
