Page 13 of Debugging Love

Next, consider Myers-Briggs, the personality test my contracting company made me take for my “professional development.” Judging does not go with Perceiving. Thinking does not go with Feeling. You get where I’m going here. When the puddle is reduced to a handful of INTJs, the odds of finding my soulmate are looking up.

Wandering around the city trying to find her would take too long. Me. One guy. With only two legs. On any given Saturday night, I can only comb through a few bars. I’m one guy limited by the laws of linear time and three-dimensional space. But the internet is a multiverse that allows me to be several places at once. All I have to do is create accounts on multiple dating apps and boom, I’m everywhere. My odds of finding my soulmate are now very, very good. That’s science in action.

Going on so many dates can get tricky. I need a way to track where I’ve been, where I’m going. Suddenly JustInCase.xslx seems less sketchy, more...practical.

No one sees this spreadsheet but me. No one.Ever.

Danni Grasso already has a row, but her columns are empty and waiting. Each attribute gets a number between one and ten.

Age: 10(We’re both twenty-five. That works.)

Appearance: 7 (Minus 3 points for the evil snake-face she made a few minutes ago.)

Personality: 6 (Some spunk is good. All spunk, no softness? Nope.)

Sense of Humor: 1 (Totally didn’t get my jokes.)

Vocation: 2 (Coming home in steel-toed boots and a hard hat? Nah.)

Grooming: 10 (No further comment.)

Smell: 10 (Not sure what it was? Lavender? Mixed with roses?)

Conversation Skills: 6 (Those back and forths were kinda fun if I’m being honest. Which I am. Because science.)

I take a moment to add my Danni-specific columns to the spreadsheet.

Racist: -20 (Self-explanatory.)

Physical Response: 10 (Credit where credit is due.)

That gives Danni 32 points, putting her below Tarin Bileski, the dental hygienist with a room-sized Squishmallow collection and four guinea pigs, and Darcy Highdorn, the part-time birthday party clown and self-proclaimed expert on twentieth-century serial killers. (That date was bad. So bad.)

Callbacks require 60 points or above. As I expected, Danni and I have seen the first and last of each other. Unless we run into each other in the parking lot or she smacks another rude Post-it note to my door.

My Zoom app pings. I take a look at the clock. Right on time.

I pull up the window and accept the call. Mom and Dad appear, ready for our customary Saturday night chat. Sunday morning for them.

Mom’s gaze is intense and alert. Dad looks like he woke up five minutes ago, his white cotton pajamas still wrinkled from sleep and tufts of his salt and pepper hair pointing in every direction.

Dad works hard at BTI Capital, the investment banking firm my grandfather founded in Bengaluru with two other partners. His workweeks are long, sometimes spilling into Saturday and Sunday. He probably stayed up late last night working for a client.

They’re sitting at the dining table, the glass sliding doors behind them giving a wide view of the garden and central fountain.

Mom leans forward and squints into the camera. “We can hardly see you, Adi.”

I flip on the desk lamp and angle it toward my face. “Better?”

“What’s wrong? You look gray.”

I click off my LEDs.

She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms. “That’s better. Have you been eating fast food?” Mom’s a health nut. That’s how she and Dad met, at a raw foods retreat in northern California, where she’s from. “How is your digestion?” There’s a sharper edge to her voice tonight, like something is grinding at her psyche. I’m sure I’ll find out what it is.

“My stomach is fine,” I say.

“No, it isn’t. I can see it in your eyes. You’re constipated. Are you drinking water?”

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