Page 16 of Swiped
He squinted into the bright California sun and checked his app. Yep — it aligned with the current sunny and clear conditions in the form of an anthropomorphized cartoon sun who wore blue polarized shades and flexed gleaming yellow muscles. Rami had included this design element in his very first ideation of the app, the one drawn in colored pencil way back in a middle school science class when the idea of a pocket-sized weather computer had seemed outlandish. So, this dancing, showboating sun had been an inside joke to himself and the weird little comics he used to make before he spent all of his timeon programming. It had nothing to do with the accuracy of his app. But then the internet had gotten wind of it, latched on to it with the force of a million memes, and made Fun Sun a viral hit. That, too, had nothing to do with the accuracy of his app, but it had made it shockingly popular. Still, something in him twinged a little bit when people praised his app for Fun Sun instead of its best-in-class prediction success rate.
But Nat had praised the accuracy.
Rami let out an audible groan.Nat. He turned down a side street that smelled rich and salty-sweet from a nearby dim sum spot. And there it was, back in his mind — his devil’s bargain with not just one, but two of his personalbête noires, online dating and clickbait journalism. How had he let this happen? Because the first girl he’d actually enjoyed flirting with in months turned out to be the creator of an app that had brought him nothing but personal misery? Because he hated public speaking, which was part of why he had chosen to be a programmer in the first place, and since when did repping your personal brand have anything to do with your coding skills?
He was sweating now, even though it was a crisp 62 degrees Fahrenheit outside, and would definitely drop at least ten degrees once the fog started to roll in. His back hurt from lugging around his laptop for so long. His phone buzzed in his pants pocket, as it had been doing steadily since the panel. Rami kept walking. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone about the mess he’d made for himself. At least not until his panic had given way to some sort of game plan for a solution. He groaned and heaved his backpack higher on his shoulders.
“Hey, take it easy there, cowboy.” A man leaning against a liquor store eyed Rami with concern as he passed.
But the fact of the matter was that Rami’s panic was partly, maybe entirely, because he already knew the game plan. There was really only one option. He had to start talking to women —asking them out, going on dates,getting back on the horse, as Nat had so infuriatingly put it on the livestream with that little impish smile of hers — the one that showed her pointed canines, one of his biggest turn-ons. But doing any of that was something that he’d been carefully avoiding for the past eleven months, as he had so humiliatingly confessed on the livestream.
Eleven months.
Had it really been that long? He heaved his pack again and rubbed his face. He felt clammy. His feet hurt. He stopped in front of a chalkboard sign on the sidewalk advertising artisanal espresso and looked in through the cafe’s bay windows. A dozen or so people dotted the airy space, mostly solo, mostly women. He caught his reflection in the glass, not nearly as crazed looking as he felt, or at least nothing that couldn’t be concealed by fixing his hair, having a coffee, and sitting down instead of pacing the streets. Yes, this coffee was probably going to cost him at least nine dollars. Yes, this cafe was infuriatingly named The Spaniel Project in an old-timey script font even though the sign also read,Est. 2023. But this was his fate. The one he had made for himself. It was time to face the music. It was time to cast himself at the feet of serendipity and pop culture references. It was time to talk to strangers.
* * *
Espresso in hand, Rami surveyed the spread of communal tables in front of him. Twenty- and thirty-somethings typed away on phones, tablets, and laptops, mostly insulated by Princess Leia-looking headphones. He grabbed an open seat between two pretty women who were not wearing engagement rings.
He turned to the woman on his right. She was wearing a fuzzy green cardigan and had long hair with heavy black bangs. She looked serious, like she read Russian literature and couldtell him dry, existential jokes through rings of cigarette smoke, which was cool. Did cool people still smoke anymore? Why did he think he would know? He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, do you know the Wi-Fi password?” He smiled.
She took out one of her earbuds as he deflated inside. He hadn’t seen those. “What?” she asked, blinking large blue eyes at him.
“Hi, how are you?” Rami said, smiling again. Or maybe just smiling broader. He wasn’t sure if he had actually stopped smiling.
The blue eyes narrowed. “I’m fine?”
“How’s your coffee?” asked Rami. In his mind, he leaned his chin on his hand in a charming, quizzical manner. In reality, he stayed perfectly frozen still.
“It’s a chai tea,” she replied.
Rami perked up. “Actually, ‘chai’ means tea,” he said. “So, it’s redundant to call it ‘chai tea.’” He brought his hand to his chin, instead of the other way around, as he said, “Did you know that?”
His would-be literary lover rolled her eyes. “Wow great thanks,” she grumbled.
“That doesn’t matter. I don’t know why I said that.” Rami managed a little laugh. “Do you like the blend, though?”
Her eyes lit up, and she smiled back. Rami felt her prettiness clutch in his chest as she said, “Oh yeah. It’s great!” She pushed her cup toward him. “But can I get it with a splash of oat milk this time? Thanks.”
She popped her earbud back in.
“Oh, no, I don’t—” he stammered. “I don’t work here.” She frowned at her screen and typed, oblivious to him. He looked around the table. Everyone was frowning at their screens and typing. He stood and went back to the counter.
One chai with a splash of oat milk later, Rami was back at the table. He set the drink down in front of the woman in the green sweater, who gave it, not him, a cursory nod as she talked to an invisible audience about the week’s deliverables.
Rami pulled his phone out and opened up Whither, Weather after clearing a new crop of “WTF?!” notifications from his friends. He pretended to mull the display as he turned to the woman on his left, a petite blonde with a messy bun and an oversized men’s flannel shirt. She looked sweet and fun, like she could introduce him to his new favorite band and make it so he actually didn’t loathe the idea of going to a music festival. That could happen, maybe?
“Hmm, today’s temperature is 5.3 degrees lower than the historic average,” he said loudly. “How interesting!”
She, too, pulled out a concealed earbud.
“I’m sorry, did you say something?” she asked. She had fair skin and a round face with wide-set brown eyes rimmed in black eyeliner.
Rami gave his best casual shrug. “Oh, did I? I guess I just got absorbed in the successful app that I designed.” He held out his phone. “Look, it’s our newest animation.”
Her face lit up and she actually clapped,clapped, as she watched Fun Sun bounce across the screen, blowing sunbeam kisses with his big, muscled arms.
“Whither, Weather! Cuuuuuuuute!” She fixed him with her wide brown eyes, which were now warm and glowing at him. “I love Fun Sun!”
