62 Hours of Match.com Suffering

I haven’t heard from you for 62 hours.
62 hours and counting.
At every slight beep or buzz, my eyes react, snapping to my phone in hand.

It all started so well. We met for drinks. Drinks at a quaint spot with a view. You picked it out, said it was one of your favorite places.
We both ordered gin.
We both grew up on the East Coast, and we both always dreamed of living in California.

“Can you imagine having a tree of avocados in your backyard?”
“I know, right?”

We somehow avoided the question of “Where do you work?” for a full 15 minutes. You noted how unusual that was. I stopped and thought, wow, our values are so similar.

I work in finance. You’re in law school. Talk about a power couple. Our eyes met as I imagined our future rowhouse, the best-looking on the block. Complete with a balcony that’s perfect for our small dinner parties.

The evening flew by. Suddenly it was 10:32 P.M., and past both of our bedtimes. You walked me home because you’re such a gentleman. You said goodnight and kissed me on the cheek because you’re such a gentleman.

“This was nice. We should do it again sometime.”
I swooned. “We should! I had a really fun time!”
“Cool. I’ll catch you later.”

62 hours have passed. You said, “We should do this again.” Again means again.
62 hours have come and gone, and you’re not getting any younger and I’m not getting any thinner since I’ve shoved three zebra cakes down my throat and washed it down with swigs of Gatorade because it’s important to stay hydrated during a time of stress. Complete fucking stress. You said we’d hang out again. It’s been 62 hours. Children have been birthed and people have died and somehow you can’t find the time to tap out a fucking message on a keyboard, you sad sack of shit.

Buzz.

My eyes snap to my phone.

Patrick Hi

You remembered.

You remembered that I said “Hi” is such an underrated greeting.
And then you ordered another gin and tonic. With two lime wedges because you said lime is underrated.

Nevermind. You’re perfect.