FICTION
Chasing Beginnings
On not taking chances, but defining them
“How much does it say?”
“Three and a half months. The longest I’ve ever gotten.”
“Really? I’m surprised”.
I was too, but I hid mine rather well. When you volunteer all your information, as if they didn't have it already, they come up with a number. The ideal number of days to date is based on your and your partner’s compatibility, interests, and desires. We didn’t care for any games.
It makes things easier, giving us the optimal pleasure we deserve.
I’m awful at initiating conversation, in contrast to how you would have to pay me to shut up later. Morgan doesn’t seem to mind the nervous silence. I gaze at the ash falling outside, whitish fluffs resting on the window sill.
“It reminds me of snow. Have you ever seen it in real life?”
“Once when I was young. There’s a photo but I don't really remember.”
I notice the half-truth. We don’t want to remember. The app matched us pretty well I think, most people would mind not wanting to talk about the past. I don’t think it defines us — that the real us even existed back then.
“What do you do?”
“I write,” I reply, dreading the next inevitable question, what about?
“Would I have seen anything? Can I?”
“If you break into my laptop then yes. Otherwise, most of it is ghostwritten.”
If anyone wants to read a bunch of half-written introductions, then I’ll show it, because I am not ashamed. I just don’t want it published.
Morgan can’t reveal their job. I get it, I don’t have the security clearance, but it’s still a little frustrating. Analytics is the only word that comes out.
I check my phone, then call myself out (silently) on the rude gesture. I place it on the table upside down, but that reveals my bejeweled phone case, the letters Clara patterned on in silver. A gag gift from my college roommate, one she claims to have hunted for months. Whatever.
I turn it back up again, before taking another sip from my drink.
Morgan orders food and asks me if I want some more. Apart from that the conversation lags at an alarmingly slow pace. Worry churns in my stomach. For reasons unknown to me at this time, I don’t want it to go badly.
“How many apps are you on?” I ask, picking up the slack.
“I usually do one at a time, so this one, I guess. The name is so weird — good weird, CB (Chasing Beginnings), I had to try it at least once.”
“You don’t find the deal threatening?”
“No. It’s fun.”
If you decided to not follow the timetable, you couldn’t sign up for any dating app for two years. They took the violations pretty seriously and the inside joke was, if you found the one, you won’t need them anyway. And if you’re an idiot, well then, you’ve just ruined a few good years of your life.
“Are you an Opter?” Morgan asks with a slight shake of eyebrows.
“Yes. If I was a denier, they wouldn’t match us.”
“Right. Then you know everything that is going on?”
“Yes, mostly. Not as much as you, I presume.”
The silence that followed this time around was that of gloom. With everything that was going on around us, it seemed so silly, that we were sitting here on a date, getting to know each other. Pointless is the word.
But, it’s what we humans do. We focus on what we can control and how much ever we claim otherwise, we crave meaningful connections.
“Any siblings?”
“One. She got married recently,” I deadpan.
“I didn’t know people still did that.”
“She’s a type-A nut job, who waited all her life to be a wife and is now busy picking out throw pillows. He is a reformed frat boy who actually thinks he can make it work. I wonder what will come first, her pill addiction or him slipping up. The silver lining was that they couldn’t afford a wedding.”
I waited for the recoil, but there was none. Most people couldn’t take how blunt I was regarding things I didn’t agree with. I’ve been called toxic, bitter, and caustic. Morgan just sits there chuckling, like I’d told a joke.
The neon sign over our heads lit up some cheesy symbols. It makes the room glow with warmth it didn’t have before. I guess they finally fixed it.
“I’m assuming you read a lot?”
“What’s a lot?”, I answer, half laughing, half nervous.
I wince not so consciously, thinking about my disorganized wall-to-wall bookshelf, which was one paperback away from collapsing, the piles under my bed, and those tucked in between clothes. Was I ready to share that?
I don’t know if Morgan notices, but I am already way inside my head about my weird reaction. What I would love is for us to ignore it and move on.
“So I read this book the other weekend, it’s called Pride and Prejudice. It came out about 300 years ago, I think. Do you know it?”
“Know it? I tracked down a physical copy a few years ago.”
I loved the book. Something you’d have to torture me to admit. I usually don’t claim to know it either, but my response slipped out. I don’t know if it’s the three drinks or our vibe, but things have started to seem easy.
“Do you think people fell in love like that?”
“In the pages of books? Absolutely. You should read some of mine, I swear, they’ll make you yearn for romance. But not in real life, I don’t think.”
“Did you just accidentally promise to show me some of your work?”
“Yes. Anytime. Even after this, if we continue to be friends.”
“I think we will.”
This time silence stretched out between us like it belonged, like sand beside the sea, knowing, creasing where the water caressed it. I glance out again to check the weather, and the sky looks clear, as much as it can be.
There’s more to say, maybe we’re only halfway through, but I feel that a deadline is approaching. Before we continue, we have a decision to make.
“So I guess we are doing this?”
The words don’t match Morgan’s stare. It’s secure with a hint of hesitation and I take more joy in it than I should. I nod my head in return.
We both press the green approve button at the same time. This in-person meetup is their way of letting us know that we have a choice. In truth we barely do. At least there’s no waiting, for calls or texts. We know we’re in.
We went through the usual points like we were at a job interview. More about family, what hobbies we can make time for, likes, pet peeves, and any detail we felt important to share. We gave our opinions on the war effort.
The timer on my phone distracted me from the reverie. It was the first time I hadn’t checked my watch in over two hours. I usually know when the end is coming, in fact, I pride myself on leaving five minutes early.
Morgan started to pack in swift motions. Instead of doing the same, I sat there limp, debating. My hands clammed up and my throat itched.
“Before we leave I need to get something out of the way,” I managed finally.
“Shoot”.
“This app? My idea. My college roommate developed it and she became the sole face of it, while I enjoyed the checks. So this is serious for me.”
“Wow, I should have guessed so. Anything else?”
“This isn’t a trope, where today I’m the bitch who doesn’t believe in love but slowly and surely, I’ll melt to become the sweet girl next door. When the time runs out so will I. My writing that you want to read so very much? All beginnings. That’s what I chase. I’ve never known anything else.”
“Good. So do I.”
Morgan winks at me when I stare back in surprise, and that little gesture untightens my chest. I let myself breathe. Maybe this was going to be okay.
I clutch my silver coat tighter as I make my way through the damp streets. Barely inside my building, I hear the unmistakable sound of air raid sirens. My first thought rather surprisingly, is if Morgan made it home safely.
A text is sent, and another is received, all within five minutes.
I go through my nightly ritual as if I wasn’t human at all. Shower, reheated dinner, and my to-do lists. I open the window a crack.
Then I set down my laptop and started a story. Another beginning.
The second part is out. Read it here.