Margot
Ethan and I both have dates on Wednesday night.
The guy that Ethan chose for me on Sip asked me out to dinner after a few messages back and forth. When I told Ethan about it, he asked the woman I chose for him out on the same night. He called it an act of solidarity, but I’m pretty sure he just didn’t want to waste a weekend date on a woman he isn’t interested in sleeping with.
On Wednesday night, I meet my date at a fancy steakhouse downtown. When I first see Nick in person, my jaw drops. Literally drops. The photo on Sip doesn’t do him justice. He’s absolutely gorgeous. And apparently, I’m not the first woman to react this way. He laughs it off and greets me with a quick side hug.
I use the short walk from the hostess stand to our table to reflect upon my mistakes. This outfit, for one. It’s the same one I wore the night that Jeremy and I broke up. It’s the nicest date outfit that I own, but it’s no match for the navy slacks and crisp white button-down shirt that Nick is wearing. His clothing looks tailored and expensive, while mine looks… well, like a dress anda pair of shoes that have spent the last three years crammed into the nether regions of my closet, slowly going out of style.
When we take a seat at our table, I fidget with my dress like my palms can magically smooth away the cheap fabric or outdated style.
“Nervous?” Nick asks, flashing a charming smile over the top of his menu.
“A little.”
He sets his menu down, focusing all of his attention on me. “You mentioned a recent breakup in one of your messages. Is this the first date you’ve been on since then?”
“Sort of…” I say. “I went out with someone last weekend, but it only lasted about five minutes.”
Then I fell asleep next to my boss.
Nick takes a sip of his water and cringes. “That bad, huh?”
“The date started with him yelling at me for wearing closed toe shoes.”
“Ah, foot fetish guy,” he says with a nod and a smirk.
“Do you… know him?”
Nick laughs. “No, but I’ve heard stories. Once you’ve been on Sip long enough, you realize it’s a pretty small world. A few women that I’ve been out with have mentioned a guy who insists that all his dates wear sandals. I’m assuming it’s the same guy.”
Well, that’s depressing. Like a big game of round robin where there are no winners, and the consolation prize is a venereal disease.
If my last date is known as the foot fetish guy, what is Nick known for? And what about Ethan? What would his claim to fame be on this app? If I stay on Sip long enough, what will mine be? The quiet girl who always wears the same boring black dress? There are worse things, I suppose.
Things like spending years on a dating app with nothing to show for it except an unflattering nickname.
The sudden urge to spring out of my chair and impulsively adopt every cat at the local shelter, thus sealing my fate as a single spinster, wells up inside of me. Nick’s done nothing wrong, but my inner skeptic is attacking every hopeful, romantic part of my brain. Ultimately, my incessant politeness wins the battle but loses the war.
I sit across from my ridiculously attractive date, trying my hardest to smile through the skepticism. For every charming smile or well-rehearsed anecdote that Nick offers, I wonder how many women have been in this exact seat before me. How many of them laughed at this same story? Sipped this same wine? Went home with him at the end of the night?
Why am I here now instead of any of them? He’s obviously been on a lot of dates, so why hasn’t he found anyone? It’s obvious, at least to me, that we’re poorly matched in almost every way. Nick is more attractive than me, more successful than me, and from what I can tell,waywealthier than I am. He’s basically Ethan, but instead of being the CEO of a chain of outdoor recreation stores, he’s the VP at a mortgage company. Much like Ethan, he’s objectively a great catch.
So, why is he still single?
A previous conversation with Ethan echoes in my brain.Does that mean we matched?I asked him after he found my profile.No, it just means you’re a new user in the Denver area under the age of forty-five.
Something tells me I fall into the same category for Nick.
He’s still single because he wants to be.
I’m here because I’m someone new. Someone he hasn’t already slept with. A new user in the Denver area under the age of forty-five—or whatever arbitrary age range Nick decided on when he signed up for the dating app.
There’s nothing inherently wrong with any of this. I’m open to the idea of a one-night stand, maybe even with Nick. Heprobably knows what he’s doing, and I’d probably have a decent time.
This is the part where I get inside my own head, imagining scenarios that haven’t happened and likely never will. Scenarios where I am terrible at sex, and the only partner I’ve ever had failed to mention it. Scenarios where Nick is an axe murderer and this meal will be my last. I don’t even like steak that much; I just didn’t want the salmon.
“Everything okay?” Nick asks, pulling me away from my thoughts.