Swipe Wright Too

Nearly twenty years.

The last time she'd been single, people still met each other without first examining six photographs, a political affiliation, an attachment style, three hobbies and whether somebody considered cilantro a personality trait.

Dating had once been relatively straightforward.

A man asked a woman to dinner. She either accepted or declined. If dinner went well, there might be another dinner. Eventually somebody left a toothbrush somewhere.

Back then, whether the cap was on or off wasn't part of the screening process.

Apparently civilization had found this process inadequate.

Now there were algorithms.

Compatibility percentages.

Profile prompts.

Attachment styles.

Love languages.

Verification badges.

Political filters.

Lifestyle preferences.

And photographs of grown men standing beside dead fish.

Gail had encountered the fish only recently.

There were more of them than she expected.

Pixel had introduced her to online dating.

Bonnie intended to make her participate in it.

"Just look," Bonnie had told her one evening over Chardonnay.

Gail looked.

She had never seen so many men climbing mountains.

According to their profiles, Northern California contained virtually no single men who watched television, ate carbohydrates, or spent Sunday afternoon on a couch.

They were all hiking.

Kayaking.

Cycling.

Skiing.

Running marathons.

Standing on cliffs.

One man appeared to be rappelling into a volcano.

Another had six photographs spanning what appeared to be three presidential administrations.

Gail studied them.

"Which one am I dating?"

Bonnie leaned over.

"Always assume the oldest one. And that he's bald."

Gail kept scrolling.

"Where are the normal ones?"

Bonnie took a sip of wine.

"Married."

"That's cynical."

"Mars."

"Bonnie."

"Fine. Fishing."

Gail looked at the screen.

Another fish.

Bonnie raised her glass.

"Told you."

Gail laughed.

Then she kept swiping.

That bothered her more than she cared to admit.

Nearly twenty years with one man.

Eighteen of them married.

A home overlooking the water.

Dinner parties.

Christmas mornings.

Arguments that seemed enormous when they happened and strangely insignificant once there was nobody left to have them with.

And Frank.