Page 25 of Swiped
A stall opened behind her, and the elegant, gray-haired woman who had been watching her struggle with the front door emerged. “Oh no!” she cried, taking in Nat’s appearance. “Are you OK?”
“Yeah, sorry,” Nat said. “It’s stupid.” She managed a companionable smile. “Just trying not to look like a raccoon right now.”
The woman drew close to her. “Let me show you a trick, sweetie,” she said and pulled a tampon out of a glass jar on the counter.
Nat balked. “Oh! No, I’m not—”
But the woman held up an index finger to cut her off as she popped the tampon out of the applicator and gestured for Nat to take the soft white cylinder. “It soaks up the tears and it won’t scratch your face.”
Nat dabbed the tampon to her face and watched the mess melt into the cotton. It was soft as she wiped it under her eyes. “Oh God, thank you,” she said. “I’m not usually like this.”
The woman washed her hands with a casual shrug. “Don’t worry. We’ve all been there.” She smoothed her sleek bob and righted a twisted necklace. Her blue eyes met Nat’s in the mirror. “You sure you’re OK to go back out there?”
Nat crumpled her tear-soaked towels, tossing them in the trash, and nodded as they headed to the door.
The woman opened it for Nat and turned to face her as she walked out. “And trust me?” she said. “He’s not worth it.”
Nat sighed and headed back to her seat at the bar. Eric’s stool was empty, and she was relieved to have another moment to herself before he came back. Now all she had to do was endthis date as painlessly as possible. Even though she knew that the rest of the night would probably be spent crying into her wine glass with Sara and her cat, it was still better than being here.
The bartender approached with a tray, and Nat cringed, wondering if Eric had ordered another round while she was away. But he handed over a leather-bound book with an envelope sticking out. “He paid his half, so here’s your tab,” he said.
Nat blinked in shock. “He left?” she said.
The bartender nodded.
Nat opened the envelope. Inside was a bill from the restaurant splitting everything fifty-fifty, including Eric’s massive drinks and fries. Eric had also left her a note scrawled on a napkin.
Hope you enjoy your “phone call” andDYING ALONE.
Stunned, she looked up and searched the bartender’s impassive, bearded face as if he could somehow right this deeply wayward ship. “Ready to close out?” he asked.
Chapter 9
Rami watched the city lights go by through the dirty bus window. He’d gotten on close enough to the start of the route to grab a seat, but now every spot was taken and the aisle was jammed with standing riders who clung to the metal poles for dear life. His mouth was sticky with candy already, but he shoved another lollipop into his mouth. Even in the dark reflection, he could see the blue stains on his lips, but it wasn’t like it mattered. The high of being called “a babe” had worn off by the time he’d walked a half-block from the bar. It’d been another wasted evening, and had gotten him one more person to dread running into at the grocery store or, the more likely scenario, he realized with some mild panic, to have to acknowledge on public transit. He looked around suspiciously for anyone who might recognize him, but it was too crowded for anyone to see much farther than the person’s armpit in front of them.
Still, this was quickly becoming his sense of San Francisco — not so much his small but tight group of friends or even the familiar faces in his neighborhood, but a growing legion of half-known women who had rejected him (or in the rare case, vice versa), and yet whose faces were burned into his memory all the same. He wished he could forget all the failed online dates he’d been on as soon as they were over. From talking to other guys, especially Ian, it seemed like they were able to do just that. He constantly got advice that it was “a numbers game”, and to take a “shotgun approach.” He even knew a few coding colleagues who treated dating apps like another system to conquer, creating spreadsheets and elaborate calendars to go on as many dates as possible per week, sometimes even twice in one day. But for Rami, every date felt like it cost him a piece of himself, even if it’d only been two hours of conversation over coffee on aWednesday afternoon. Every date left a mark. Maybe he was just broken.
He’d met his first serious girlfriend in coding boot camp, and they’d stayed together amicably for nearly three years. Their end hadn’t been traumatic. They simply realized that they’d transitioned into being friends instead of lovers at some point, and while he may have been more than slightly inclined to just go with that, she had wanted to keep looking for a great, fiery love. Then she’d moved to Austin, and by the look of her socials, found exactly that within barely a month. He’d even sent them a pressure cooker for their wedding, no symbolism intended. After taking time to lick his wounds and get his bearings, Rami had figured it was time for him to go searching for his other half, too. Everyone was on the apps, so he’d joined BeTwo, which was supposed to be for serious relationships, not just hookups. A little over two years and many disastrous quasi-relationships later, his heart felt worn out like a tattered shoe. Not just because he’d been disappointed, but because he’d been ghosted, breadcrumbed, zombied, roached, friend-zoned, stood up, lied to, and cheated on by just about every single woman he’d met online. Over and over. For years.
He sighed and twisted the lollipop in his mouth. Blue raspberry never disappointed. Rami had tried a hookup just once, after being warmed to the concept by a neighbor who’d preached its virtues over pitchers of fruity vodka drinks on his balcony. So, one IRL meetup, after two quick rounds of surprisingly strong cocktails and some pleasant if inane banter, Rami had gone home with a woman on the first date. He’d been a little drunk, and she’d been exceptionally pretty in the way that made words evaporate from his mind, and he honestly hadn’t needed to try too hard for her to pull him close and suggest that they get out of there. He’d felt mildly queasy in the ride-share on the way to her apartment, but chalked it up to the booze. Insideher studio apartment, she’d handed him a glass of water and wordlessly made up the sofa into a bed by throwing the cushions onto the floor and pulling a second pillow from the kitchen cupboard that was, essentially, her nightstand.
The digital clock on the microwave had lit them in a clinical glow as Rami tried to play the role of the dashing sexual rogue. But he didn’t know anything about this woman. She was beautiful, and her skin was impossibly soft, and the alcohol buzzed pleasantly in his head when they kissed, but when he opened his eyes, the evidence of her life was all around him. Posters for modern art shows that he’d never heard of. Framed photos of smiling strangers. A string of fairy lights nestled in a souvenir glass shaped like a Buddha next to a clutch of dried flowers. How was it right that he could know what her breasts looked like, but not why there was a note that readPOLAR BEARS!tacked to the wall above the sofa bed?
She’d pulled off her underwear and reached into his boxers. He still remembered the way she’d knelt naked in front of him on the bed in the blue glow, one hand rubbing her pert, dark nipples and looking hungrily into his eyes. Her other hand worked between his legs as he’d willed himself to perform. “Come on, baby,” she’d cooed in his ear. “Get hard for me.”
But he couldn’t. His nakedness had felt ridiculous, as phony as if he’d tried to don an accent or rev the engine of a family sedan. He’d only had sex with two women at that point in his life, and the difference between what he’d done with them and what he was trying to do now felt like trying to cook a meal in a tiny toy kitchen. The faucet was solid plastic. The burners were stickers that peeled off with a fingernail scratch. There was no heat. It was all pretend. And it made his heart ache for the real thing.
“Whiskey dick?” she’d said, already rolling away and reaching toward her phone. “It happens.”
It had seemed less embarrassing to just go with that, and he’d quickly called a ride-share and left. Every so often, Rami made sure that he still remembered her name — Michaela.
The bus lurched to a stop, and the riders stumbled into each other with a chorus of groans and grunts. The doors opened with a sick mechanical wheeze. The man next to Rami shuffled out with a few others, and suddenly there was a parting in the aisle. A filthy man in a thick, crusted-over coat stumbled down the bus. People covered their mouths and noses and scooted away as the doors closed and the bus rattled forward. The man muttered to himself, eyeing every passenger with a burning scorn as he moved down the aisle. The bus took on a tense quiet as the riders watched him.
Then he started screaming.
“Skin lice! Skin lice!” He shoved his ruddy, bandaged hands between the riders, now frantically pulling the cord for a stop. People squashed toward the back to give him as much room as possible as he yelled.
Rami watched in horror as the man zeroed in on him with a devilish smile. His matted hair and tattered coat pushed toward him as people practically climbed on top of each other to get out of the way. Rami looked around, heart racing in his chest, but he was trapped.
