Page 13 of The Match Faker

For them, it’s a shot I’m willing to take.

3

JASMINE

Never wear a crop top in Toronto in February. There is no event worth this skin-puckering cold. For the entire subway ride, I keep my arms wrapped around my midsection despite the calf-length wool coat I wear overtop. The silk lining brushes against my tummy, creating a strangely illicit sensation. One I’m not interested in experiencing on a first, essentially blind, date.

Core Cupid has strict rules for matches. First names only, to prevent curious Googling. Locations—submitted by matches but ultimately chosen by the maker—must be public, for safety. Highest-ranking matches made first, because that’s how confident the organization is that the algorithm works. Ghosting is prohibited; if you miss a date without adequate warning you’re removed from the client roster. No sex on the first date—obviously more of a strong recommendation than an enforceable rule. Clients are highly encouraged to look beyond our usual types to “the connection beneath.” That’s the sticking point for me. How can a computer code tell me what kind of connection I’ll have with a stranger?

I take the sticky stairs down to Moonbar on the basement level of the old King Street building. The dive bar is a far cry from the fancy plant-based restaurant I suggested. In an almost comical contrast to the other women in jeans and T-shirts, I’m in winged eyeliner and poppy red lipstick that complements my red hair. Jade wanted me to wear it down, because my red hair is my “best feature,” but I reminded her my hair would still be red in a bun and put it up instead. The high-waisted pleated pants are sophisticated and showcase my long legs, the top simple but sexy and a little daring, according to Jade.

Mostly, I vacillate between loving the way it shows off my ample, expensive breasts and worrying the person I’m meeting will judge me for having plastic surgery. Through my teenage years, I was teased mercilessly for my flat chest. Even my mother commented on my lack of development, reminding me constantly that she’d been a C cup by the time she started high school.

I bought every type of padded bra known to the intimates section. Tried push-up bras even though I had nothing to push up. I sprinkled flax seed on my food because I read an article touting the—limited—scientific evidence supporting the claims that flax seeds’ phytoestrogens encouraged the growth of breast tissue. I even found a recipe for an at-home massage oil that claimed the combination of ingredients and massage would increase the size of my breasts by at least one cup, but it just made my skin smell like mustard.

On my eighteenth birthday, I knocked on my dad’s home office door with my sales pitch already prepared. I had a binder of doctors to choose from, most of them referred by my friends’ moms. I wrote a five-page thesis on why I was emotionally mature enough to have the surgery. In the end, I don’t think he was convinced by any of it, he just wanted me out of his office. If I’d known that was the last birthday gift I’d ever receive fromhim, maybe I would have asked for something more expensive. Like his care and attention.

The bar is dark and a little dingy. Graffiti spans the wall across from the long bar top. A few tables are crammed into the space at the front of the room where thin, high windows allow in weak light from the streetlamps outside.

My date’s name is Nick. But other than the bartender and a group of patrons who look at least half a decade younger than me gathered around the stage at the back of the bar, there aren’t any men who appear to be here alone.

Waffling near the front door in an outfit that no longer leaves me feeling sexy and sophisticated but rather out of place, I’m garnering stares. So, I take a seat at the bar and slip a mini bottle of hand sanitizer out of my purse. There’s nothing glaringly viral about this place, but I can’t tell if it’s just dark in here or if everything is covered in a fine layer of grime.

“What’ll it be?” The bartender slides a Labatt Blue coaster in front of me and leans in like my drink order will be our little secret.

“Do you have wine?” I ask, raising my voice above the music pumping from crackling speakers overhead. My chances don’t look good. There are enough beer taps to justify a barback whose only job is keg changing, but I don’t see a single bottle of wine.

He looks offended that I had to ask.

I perk up. “Cab sauv? French?”

His lips twitch. I can’t tell whether he wants to frown or laugh. Neither would be preferable.

“I know what I like,” I say before he can make a snide remark.

“Good,” he says with a nod. “Most people don’t.”

As he walks away, presumably to unearth a long-lost bottle of French cab sauv, I open my camera app to check my makeup. Technically, my date doesn’t start for a few more minutes, butalready I’m nervous; not a single person has walked through the front door since I did.

The bartender stands up from behind the bar with a green bottle in his hand. With a pop, he pulls out the cork from the pre-opened bottle and sniffs it.

Please don’t let that be mine. Please don’t let that be mine…

Lips turned down, he presents the bottle, his hand wrapped around the neck. “We have a merlot. I think we opened it last week?”

Maybe I should meet Nick outside and suggest another place. There are plenty of bars to choose from on King West.

The bartender watches me, his gaze slow and perusing but not uncomfortable. “Are you meeting someone?”

After a moment of weighing the safety risk of sharing my plans with a stranger, I admit, “Yes.”

I feel exposed, waiting here at the whims of an unknown man some computer deemed romantically compatible. As if a computer has any clue about romance.

The bartender angles in again, the move sending a wave of dark brown hair falling over his eyes. He hasn’t shaved in a few days. In his Buffalo plaid flannel, he looks like an ad for Northern Ontario tourism. The fabric is well worn. It’s not threadbare, but soft, loved. The kind of textile an entire exhibition could be planned around. I’d start with the history of Scottish tartans, the pattern’s origin and how it was made iconic through its adoption by the rustic fringes of society. I’d include early examples produced in Scotland, in the North American wool mills. There’d be a room on twenty-first century mass production of the pattern and its proliferation throughout design, its synonymy with masculinity and the queer community.

I blink once, then again, pulling myself back to the present. Sometimes I catch myself dreaming like this. Creating visionsthat unfurl like flowers, soft and almost alive, like silk held delicately between my fingers. Despite catching myself in the dream, I can never stop the inevitable swoop in my stomach that follows, the reminder that this will always only be a fantasy.

“Pull it together.” Berating myself, I then bring my glass to my lips for a fortifying sip of old wine. The last thing I need tonight is to fall into a downward spiral. Actually, considering alcohol is a depressant, maybe I should spit this out.

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