Page 7 of Catfish

Really? I thought he had more game than that.

We actually may have to have a conversation about that later, but the “hey beautiful” comment is pretty on point with the profile picture I’m looking at.

Raven hair outlines the frame of her oval face and button nose while stunning violet eyes stare back at me—captivating and almost unreal.

I’ve never seen eyes that color, and it results in me literally gaping at her. Plush pink lips, flawless honey skin, my thumb swipes too eagerly to the left, revealing another photo of her standing next to another female.

Both of them look to be around the same age as they smile for the photo, arms wrapped around each other’s waist at what seems to be a bar. I pay zero attention to the second woman, too busy outlining Reagan’s frame of thick thighs in ripped jeans, the curve of her hips, and a chest that generously fills out a Nirvana T-shirt.

She’s the most stunning woman I have ever laid eyes on. Appreciating every single feature that God graced her with.

And this profile is probably fake as hell.

A normal nobody with self-esteem issues that jacked pictures of an aspiring model on Instagram. Because there is no way a woman like this would be on a dating app. Especially one with the motto of buzzing around love or whatever.

I go back to the main page of her profile to read her details and random facts just to become more stumped.

I guess I’m looking for someone to do adult things with.

*bites bottom lip* Like file our taxes together.

*moans* Pay our mortgage.

*eyes roll back* Turn the lights off when we leave a room, so our electricity bill isn’t over three hundred bucks.

Beforehand, we rush and get married, pop our first kid out within a year just to experience what being sleep deprived feels like. Our bank accounts slowly start to drain from you getting our son into football and hockey, or my thinking ballet and softball would be the best way to go for our daughter, so I don’t murder her from her sassy mouth.

We slowly start to resent each other. You develop a gambling problem. I hit the bottle. Then I begin to grow tired of you and slowly poison you over time. Your last words to me are, “I should’ve swiped left.”

I collect your life insurance and run off to an island with your brother. I always knew he had a bigger dick than you.

Call me.

I blink.

And why do I like her more now?

Regardless of this profile screaming, “I hoard cats, love watching cooking shows, and I haven’t stepped foot out of my house in over a month,” this chick has balls. And one hell of a odd sense of humor.

Her job position is left blank, along with if she wants any kids or not. Nothing else alludes to her life, just her dark humor. And as much as I’d love for this woman to be real, my rationality screams “fake account” or someone that did this as a joke to fuck with guys on here.

The least she could’ve done was spend some more time making it look real rather than spending a full two minutes on it. She might as well just say how unserious she is about being on this dating app and called it a day. But apparently, a lot of people have too much time on their hands.

Another notification pops overhead with another new message from “Gina,” and I scroll back to Chase’s messages in the app.

This is by far the dumbest shit.

In a world full of liars and deceivers, who could trust a site like this? How would you know you were speaking to the person in the photos? I could walk by this woman on the street, her know everything about me, and not look anything like these photos.

Probably the exact opposite.

This woman right here—she’s fucking unworldly, and I’ll bet my salary that she doesn’t need an app to get attention, fucked, or even looked at.

Hell, everyone and their mom would notice this broad.

The crashing of the waves below soothes down my slight buzz, and, since it’s going to be a long night and I’d rather not check my emails, I click on the response box.

Fuck it, let’s play detective tonight and see if we can get the allegedly dark-haired beauty to snap.

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