Swipe Wright

That night, under dim lights and the dull thunk of steel meeting wood, Frank hurled axes beside Ron at a local throwing range. He hadn’t said much for the first hour. Just threw, retrieved, repeated.

Ron squared up to the target, axe raised, eyes narrowing in concentration. As he was mid-throw, Frank blurted out, “Okay—show me the online ropes.”

Ron turned his head toward him, grinning mid-swing, causing the axe to veer high, clanging off the brick wall and rebounding against the chain-link partition that separated the throwing stalls before coming to rest on the rubber surface below the target.

A staff member in a red “AXE-ELLENT SAFETY TEAM” shirt glanced over from behind the counter, eyebrows climbing, but said nothing. Ron gave a cheerful wave as if the wild throw were part of the show, then sauntered over to where Frank sat.

Now standing close enough for his shadow to fall across him, Ron hovered like a helicopter ready to lift off.

“My man. Welcome to the digital coliseum. The key to modern Cupid? The swipe. Speed matters. Don’t read bios—scout the photos. Look for signs.”

“Signs?” Frank asked.

“Yes, scouting signs,” he said. “Think baseball—only more confusing signs… and fewer umpires.”

He pulled up Hearts.com. A carousel of Bay Area women flicked across the screen as Ron swiped with ruthless rhythm.

“Too heavy—left. Too short—left. Cat lady—left. Ugly kids—left.”

Frank blinked. “Ugly kids?”

“She’s got two of ’em in the pic. Genetics don’t lie, amigo. Bad DNA is a scouting report in diapers.”

In under ninety seconds, Ron burned through thirty profiles. Then he froze—eyes wide, thumb hovering.

“Here we go. Your perfect Shakespeare match.”

“Shakespeare?”

“Yeah—‘If love be rough with you, be rough with love.’ Or maybe the thumb-biting one. Whatever—look: raven hair, bikini pic, a little cross-eyed. That’s why she posted the bikini—so no one’s looking at the eyes. Swiping right.”

He leaned back and drew a quick triangle on a cocktail napkin with the bar pen.

“See, Frankie, it’s a pyramid. Attraction math. At the top? Bikini beats cross-eyes every time. Middle tier? No kids beats ugly kids. Bottom tier? Even ugly kids beat no sense of humor. It’s survival of the hottest, the youngest, the least complicated. Women got their own pyramid. Just like us.”

Frank stared at the napkin. “So what’s below ugly kids?”

Ron grinned. “Simple. The sinkers. ‘Partner in crime’ bios, ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ quotes, or those lame dames holding wine glasses like they’re auditioning for The Bachelorette. Left swipe city.”

Frank stared, hovering somewhere between horror and curiosity. “Are you swiping for me or you?”

“Don’t worry about it. But, we need to build your profile,” Ron said, cracking his knuckles like he was about to perform surgery.

Frank sighed. “Fine.”