I can’t imagine that I received any messages at all after the disaster of a profile that I crafted last night, but I’ve been too busy all day to check. When I click on the tiny mail icon at the bottom of the screen, my eyes go wide.
“Two-hundred and thirty-seven,” I answer, genuinely stunned. “How is that possible? My profile was so awful.”
“What do they say?”
I open the first message. “It just says ‘u fat.’ Is he asking if I’m fat or telling me I’m fat?”
“Which would be better?” Ethan deadpans.
“Good point,” I mumble. “Am I supposed to respond to all of these?”
“Absolutely not. Here, let me see.”
I pass my phone back to Ethan. He rests his arm on the bar between us and scrolls through the messages. His eyebrows dip and then lift repeatedly as he reads. Occasionally, he shakes his head disapprovingly.
“You can delete all of these,” he concludes.
“All of them?”
I deflate slightly. It’s disappointing that there isn’t even one worthwhile message out of the whole bunch. Ethan tilts the phone so we can both see the screen.
“These are all from guys who are just looking to get laid. They’re so desperate they’d fuck your door if you let them,” Ethan says. His bluntness surprises a laugh out of me. “Half the messages just say ‘sup.’ Those are just guys playing a low-effort numbers game. They message every woman who joins the app hoping that some of them will respond.”
“There you go again with the flattery,” I joke. “What about the rest of them?”
Ethan reaches up to scratch the stubble on his cheek. His finger hovers over a message that reads:Send a pic of your pussy.
“They’re, uh, probably not worth responding to either,” he says.
Our eyes connect for an awkward second.
“Noted.”
I nod and glance away. I can’t look my boss in the eye with the word pussy fresh in both our minds.
“Listen, you’re going to get a ton of messages. That’s just how it works. Men outnumber women ten to one on these apps. Wait for someone who actually puts in some effort. Someone who actually read your profile and can form intelligible sentences.”
“What about this one?” I ask, pointing to a message that reads:Holy shit, I want to buy you a pony, but maybe I could start with a coffee?
Ethan levels a doubtful glare at me. “You’re aware that promising cute baby animals is a tactic often employed by kidnappers, right?”
“Sure, but if I had a pony, I could gallop away at the first sign of danger.”
He shakes his head and smirks against his beer bottle as he takes a sip. “Message the guy back if you want. But if he shows up in a windowless van, promise me you won’t get inside.”
“Fine,” I say. “And then what?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I do after I message him?”
“Are you asking me how to date, Margot?” he teases.
“No, of course not,” I say quickly.
Okay, maybe a little.
I think back to our awkward breakfast conversation after the first night I spent at his house, remembering his remark about drafting up some notes. I know he wasn’t being serious, but I could seriously use those notes right now. “But you mentioned… notes?”