He thumps thumbs on the laptop and wonders if his wording is too strong, too weird. But, it’s just a dating site. Doesn’t everyone lie about who they are? He rubs chin stubble and deletes the opening line he’s written. The only line so far. Over and over. Can’t even get past this. He rubs the back of his neck.
Let’s start over. Again.
His phone rings. Without hesitation he dismisses the call. It’s hard enough to know what to say without interference from some ass-hole bill-collector. Or worse Christine.
He bites a fingernail, gets up, makes a pot of coffee and paces through the little apartment trying to get straight in his head how to say what he want’s to say. The mirror in his bathroom tells him to shave. He ignores it and notices his shoes. They need polishing. Gotta be prepared. Look your best. He spends time on them. Then slides them back under the bed.
Back at the kitchen table, he opens up to the same blinking cursor waiting for him to fill in the ‘tell me about yourself’ field.
Should you be doing this? Someone like you?
He stares at the screen, pops a neck pimple, and lays fingers on the keyboard. His throat is dry a sawdust. The coffee has gone cold. Just like how the heated enthusiasm that drove him to try this stupid idea has gone cold. Now it’s regret that has him in a choke hold. Regret that it’s come to this. Type. Go ahead. Type. What are you waiting for? Say something.
Cha rming, loving feeling type a guy who luvs candlelight dinners, walk on beach. Their is lots to like about me. Good job, lots of money, nice car. Honest, caring, lovere. Good dancer, likes too travel. Needs a partner who don’t do drugs, a little drinking okay, no smoking, dirty fingernails or bad breath. Likes romantic sex.
He jumps up. Walks around the table twice, takes a sip of the cold coffee and studies the posting carefully. He’s not in love with it. After all, what can you expect with an eighth-grade education? Besides writing hasn’t been required for his line of work.
He hits send. His heart immediately jumps, races.
What are you thinking? Who’s gonna reply to that?
He checks the time. He’s missed showing up for work. Never liked that job site anyway. This is too important. He breathes in and stares around. Over at the unmade bed. Maybe you should delete everything. He pulls the laptop close, thinks for a minute. You lied. You’re not that guy. If someone responds to that, what will you do? You’ve never had a moonlight walk, well except…you know. Never had a candlelight dinner. Ha, can’t dance nor don’t want to. I’m not a loving guy. What you do is…well you know what you do. So, why did you say all that? Hell, the farthest you’ve ever gone is to the Walmart at the end a town. Stupid, stupid. And what you do is not romantic.
The phone rings again. He dismisses it. Waits for the message.
Mark. It’s Christine Berry. This is the last time I’m calling. The second time you’ve failed your meeting with me. You know what that means. I have to report you to the judge.
He wipes his nose with his sleeve and lights up, exhales into the ceiling light and stares at the rope and rubber gloves on the table.
The computer dings.
Hi, Mark. Just saw your posting. Would love to meet you.
“Bingo.”
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