The Tinder Chronicles: The Guy Who Wanted a Mistress

Fiction Friday

I met Charlie at a swanky restaurant in Atlanta’s Midtown neighborhood. He’d even paid for my Uber, which had been a nice touch. Our Tinder conversation had been short but sweet — we’d had some flirty banter, then he’d offered to buy me dinner. I said yes without a second thought.

In retrospect, perhaps I had been too hasty. When I arrived, the hostess informed me that Mr. Charlie Kemp had already been seated. The light in the restaurant was low, but Charlie’s corner at the back was so dark I could barely make out the dishes on the menu the hostess handed me as I sat down.

When she left, I got my first look at Mr. Charlie. He was good-looking, with the beginnings of a beard, oversized black frame glasses, and hair with the slightest touch of gray. That surprised me the most — I had not thought a thirty-one-year-old would be a baby silver fox.

“Miss Viggy,” he said, nodding at me and smiling. “It’s so wonderful to meet you.”

I was charmed, I admit. “Same to you, Mr. Kemp.”

He laughed and waved a hand. “Charlie, please.” He gestured to my empty wine glass. “And what will the lady be drinking?”

I was not a huge wine drinker, favoring water or, if pushed, a vodka cranberry. “Um…how about a Moscato?” I finally answered, feeling a bit out of my depth.

Charlie chuckled. “Moscato? Come on, I’m buying. How about a Malbec?”

I had no idea what that was, but I agreed anyway. “Sure.”

He ordered for me, and when the wine came, his hand reached for his glass, momentarily spotlighting his fingers in the glow of the small candle on our table. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw a suspicious tan line on his ring finger.

“So, um, where in Atlanta do you live?” I asked, trying to hide my wariness as our meals arrived: lobster risotto for him, a spring vegetable quinoa for me.

He chuckled again, a sound I was quickly growing tired of. I was not used to being patronized. “Oh, I don’t live in Atlanta,” he said.

I cocked my head in confusion, and a trickle of disappointment ran through me. I knew what men who were ‘only in town for business’ were really looking for on Tinder. “Oh,” I said simply.

Registering my annoyance, he said quickly, “I’m in San Francisco, but I’m out in Atlanta on business all the time.”

I was tired of skating around the question, so I just came out and asked. “So, what is it you’re looking for here, with me?”

Charlie smiled, swallowed a bite of risotto, and reached again for his wine. Now I was certain I saw a tan line where there shouldn’t have been one.

“Well,” he began, taking a big gulp of wine. “I was going to do this a bit more delicately, but since you’ve forced my hand, I guess I’ll tell you now.”

My eyebrows shot up. Maybe he wasn’t just looking for a brief good time, after all?

He leaned in closer. His breath smelled like lobster, which I hated. “I’m here on business a lot, like I said. And…and I get lonely, being so far away from home. I have a proposition for you that could benefit us both.”

“Um. Okay?”

“Hear me out. You’re a student, I’m sure you’re not exactly living in the lap of luxury. Let me take care of that. I’ll set you up with an apartment, preferably in Midtown or Buckhead, somewhere really nice. You can live there full time, and then, when I come for business, we can…have a nice time.”

I was silent, taking a moment to process what he was really saying. This sounded like a serious sugar daddy situation, something I’d never before encountered. Besides the fact that I was completely uninterested in the setup, I liked my student apartment just fine.

“It sounds like you’re looking for a mistress.”

He blushed so red I could see it clearly, even in the dim light. “No, no,” he said, too quickly. “Not at all! What would give you that impression?”

“How about that tan line on your ring finger, huh? Does your wife in San Francisco know you’re on Tinder?”

His face shifted from red to a dark purple, almost the same color as his glass of Malbec. He stuttered, “I see now that you’re not the right girl for this.”

“Definitely not,” I said, standing to leave. “By the way, I love my student apartment. And Malbec tastes like ass.”