An honest dating app profile

Met a lady over coffee today. She smiled, flirted. Said, “You look like an artist.” Am I, I wondered, or just a cliche?  

She wanted to know what apps I used. Which way did I swipe? “I don’t,” I said. A few minutes later she enquired, “So…you’ve been single quite a while now, haven’t you?” When I nodded, she was curious to discover if I preferred it that way. “It has its advantages,” I confirmed.

Did she appear to agree? Was that the end of her game? Her eyes searched me again and, when she got up to leave, she declared, “Everyone lies online. So, thanks for being honest.”

She dropped a card on the table. It tells me her name, and that she’s in real estate.

If I contact her, what will I say? Do I play to her artist stereotype? Alternatively, if she found me on a dating app, would she assume the lily was gilded?

Moved, I now contemplate an imagined online profile. In her honour, I might write something like this:

Today, the only guidance I can give you is that I do not truly know what I want. At first glance, I fit the romantic stereotype. I author a love letter blog. I cry with relief when onscreen lovers finally kiss, and I break when they do. Yet, being a long time single, I am not lonely. Nor do I crave coupledom. Indeed, I cannot say with any conviction what love is, whether I want it, or if I am truly capable of giving it. In truth, I can be cold and distant. Elusive. Some would say cruel; and they might be right. As a solo flyer, I can be set in my ways and, although I remain open to change, I tend to prefer it on my own terms. Plus, I am not a go-getter. Neither am I motivated by ideology, self-improvement mantras, or must-see travel bugs. While I would love to have a ballet body or visit the Tanezrouft, it won’t bother me if I don’t. Ambition is mostly vanity, and I’m kind of (almost) over myself. Not tired or in despair. Not cynical or bitter. Just calm. Happy with less. With my own skin. In occasional fantasy, my lover and I are emotionally available and psychologically savvy. There is a silken thread running between us. It does not bind. Rather, it connects. Instinctively. This, our private language. Our vessel and our harbour. If any of the above resonates, who knows what may emerge. As for tomorrow…I may well change my mind.   

Already, the property manager’s card is crumpled in the recycling bin. It was not her. Nor I. Which way are we meant to swipe now?

Yeah, the way that walks away.

PS: The attendant photo was taken on July 27, 2023. It has not been touched up or run through filters. What you see is what you get.

Image © Paul Ransom.