Page 2 of Two Guys, a Girl, and a Tripod

“Very creative,” I mutter to myself, but it’s done.

I quickly create a password and am provided access to the site. Immediately, it prompts me to upload a photo–yeah, right–and input profile information such as my gender, sexual orientation, relationship status, and more. I can’t focus on theAbout Mesection now.

Yes, I’ll do it because damn it, Miles will find a way to make me. I won’t meet anyone. I won’t go on a date. I’ve been on dates. I’ve tried to meet women, both organically and on dating apps. It never works. They never want to see me again.

What makes this site any different?

You’d think he grew up having to fight for every scrap, the way he scarfs down his food, but I know that’s not the case. I’ve been slowly, almost carefully, stabbing at the pasta dish Miles made for dinner while he’s been shoveling enormous bites into his mouth. I’m not even sure he's paused to take a breath.

“You know,” Miles says through a mouthful of food, “you're going to have to-”

“I’m know,” I interrupt and send him a sideways glance.

“You don’t have to showyour face,” Miles urges.

“I wasn’t going to.” I was never going to. I don’t have co-workers I worry might recognize me on the site–though that would mean they’re on it too, I suppose–but I still don’t want my face on it.

“Just run the photos by me before you add any.” Miles means well, wanting to make sure I show my best side, but I’m self-conscious all the same. “You can be fully clothed,” he adds.

“I don’t think that was ever in question.” I shudder at the thought of posting nude photos, even faceless ones.

“What are you gonna say in your profile?” The question has to make its way through another mouthful of pasta.

“Computer nerd looking for love?” I ask. “I don’t know, this is fucking weird. I hate writing about myself.”

“Want me to write it?”

The offer startles me and I meet his gaze. He’s still chewing, his brown eyes indicating he's sincere. He swallows, waiting for my response, and my eyes drop to his Adam’s apple as it bobs beneath his inked skin. The man is fucking covered in tattoos.

“Er, yeah, ok.” I look down at my plate and use my fork to move the bowtie pasta around, creating a trail through the creamy pesto sauce. I stab a piece of grilled chicken and pretend to examine it, though my eyes won’t focus. “What-what would you say?” I can’t look up, can’t meet his gaze.

“I’ll text it to you later.”

Great.I’m in for a treat, I’m sure. He’s either going to make me sound like a bad boy who finally wants to settle down or some reclusive computer nerd who can’t find a girlfriend without his best friend’s help. While the latter is true, I really hope he doesn’t go that route.

For several minutes, the only sounds echoing through the kitchen come from Miles’ fork stabbing at his pasta and hitting the plate below. I continue to stare at my own meal, not feeling particularly hungry. Abruptly, I stand from my stool, muttering something about having a lot of work to do before rinsing my plate and setting it in the dishwasher.

“Leave the other dishes and I’ll take care of them in a bit.” I disappear into my office before he can respond.

Miles has his side of the house and I have mine. My office and bedroom are connected by a bathroom so that, if Miles is working from home, I don’t need to venture into the main part of the house and risk overhearing his latest project. His studio has its ownensuite bathroom and there’s a third one accessible from the hallway outside his bedroom. When he came house hunting with me five years ago, we knew immediately that the place was perfect. At the time, he’d only had his then-side hustle for a year, but in the years since it has become a full-blown career.

Talk about ironic.My roommate’s an amateur porn star and what am I?A goddamn loser.

The room is well-lit with floor and desk lamps. I never use the harsh, overhead lights. I’m not even sure the last time I turned them on.

In addition to four monitors and my personal laptop, my office is also home to a few game consoles and a huge television mounted on the wall opposite the desk. I’d once thought about joining the trend of people who live-stream themselves playing video games, but I’m not entertaining enough for that. Instead, I sit alone in my office, pulling the Nintendo Switch controllers from their perch. It’s time for an evening of solo adventuring in a fantasy world.

2

Sophie

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

“Where is it?” I mutter to myself, digging through my laptop bag. Everything is in there–my laptop and charging cord, the books I brought to read on the plane, the external hard drive that I travel with, the snacks I bought in the airport–except for one very vital thing. My phone charger is missing. How did I forget my fucking phone charger? I used it at the airport. I know I did.

I freeze, my mind running through the events from my layover this afternoon. I unplugged my phone as they announced pre-boarding and must have forgotten to grab the cord before standing up and moving to gather with the rest of the passengers. The crowd was restless, so I was more focused on not jostling people as I passed them.

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