Tinder Says
“There is no one around you,” Tinder informs me.
You are alone, it says without saying. There isn’t another one like you within 100 miles, maybe more.
* * *
The other day at work I rang out a fairly plain-looking, though not all-together unattractive young man. He was buying the new Jennifer Egan book. He spoke emphatically--with such genuine enthusiasm it made the sediment in the riverbed of my heart move, if just for a quick second. “I read A Visit From the Goon Squad a few years ago,” I told him. “I really liked it.” “Yeah!” he beamed. “Didn’t it just make you want to go out and live?” I did, at that moment, feel a flicker of life. * * * “There is no one around you,” continues to be the word from Tinder. You are all alone. * * * The next day, a handsome barrista comes into the store. He has blue eyes and straight teeth and a girl with him that I mistakenly assume is his wife or girlfriend, but who in all actuality is his twin sister. I learn all of this information when he chooses to speak to me at length, while explaining that he and his sister are looking for a copy of Home Alone 2: Lost in New York on VHS--endearingly rolling his eyes at the mention of Donald Trump’s cameo appearance. We do not have a copy in stock. He is good looking, and charming; he has good social skills, he laughs when I make a stupid joke. What he lacks is that genuine touch; that lightning bolt of enthusiasm that the fellow from the day before had. He makes me feel seen, but the river in my heart remains murky and unmoving. I wonder if charms everyone like this. I muse on the idea that every time I have the thought that I might find someone attractive, the adjoining thought is always “I bet he’s a douchebag though.” “This guy is really cute and I bet he’s a douchebag.” “In all likelihood that cute guy is a douchebag.” “That’s a cute douchebag.” My brain speaks these two thoughts to my heart in the same cosmic breath. * * * “There is no one around you.” I know. * * * My coworker retrieves the keys to the display case from my perch at the cashwrap. He returns moments later with a DVD called Fritz the Cat. Upon further inspection I learn that this is an erotic cartoon from the 70’s about anthropomorphic cats: it’s proto-furry porn. A short while later, the customer arrives to collect Fritz. He is built large, with a lot of tattoos and a soothing baritone voice. “Have you seen that?” He asks. I tell him I haven’t. “It’s pretty wild--NOT appropriate for kids,” he informs me with a wink. He is neither classically good-looking, nor classically charming like the barrista from the day before was. Likewise, he doesn’t exude the joy of life like the Jennifer Egan reader from the day before that. What he has that they lacked is a raw, carnal sexuality. He evokes images of barbarians and beasts. He is an animal. He is an animal, and in some nondescript way, for better or for worse, he likes to watch cartoon cats fuck. The river in my heart runs shallow and parched. * * * “There is no one around you,” Tinder reiterates. Maybe that’s all for the better. I delete the ap. [end]