Page 6 of Gaga for the Gargoyle
Hello Evangeline. You’re my first match on this app. I have to say I’m blown away by your beauty.
Bleck. No. Delete.
Get it together, Xander. Don’t scare her away. I look at her details again. She’s five foot one. I’m seven feet.
Fuck, she’s tiny.
I’m going to destroy her.
I stand up and pace the living room. What the fuck am I going to say? I open Google and search opening lines for dating apps.
There are some good ones, but for the most part, they’re cheesy as hell. I wish this damn app would have let us fill out more information about ourselves. At least then, I could read some of her interests and work from there.
God, what the fuck kind of dating app is this?
Okay. Let’s just...be honest. Be...real.
Me
I’ve been trying to figure out what to say in my first message to you. I’m really bad at this. Dating apps seem so impersonal which is why I’ve never used them before. I’m pretty sure my friend downloaded this one on my phone because I don’t remember doing itmyself. I suppose I should thank him though as I’ve matched with you. You’re stunning.
I hit send and blow out a long stream of breath.
Okay. That wasn’t hard. I kept it casual. Real. I didn’t care about grammar or punctuation. Not that I’ve ever been good with that shit, but I’ve learned in these modern times that text messages tend to be informal.
Wait. Should I ask her a question? Did I ramble too much? I suppose I don’t need to add more nonsense.
Wow. 999 years of my life, and I still get nervous when meeting a beautiful being. Except, I’ve never felt this on edge with any other potential lover.
I set my phone down, deciding to let fate take the wheel. I can’t imagine what she’s going to think the moment she sees a gargoyle has messaged her.
Chapter 3 – Evangeline
My alarm jolts me awake, and I pick up my phone, prepared to throw it across the room. Ugh. Why the hell did I set my alarm? It’s Saturday and my day off.
Birdie jumps on my chest and starts making biscuits, her claws digging into my skin through the thin fabric of my sleep shirt.
“Okay! I’m up, I’m up!”
She jumps down, and I throw the covers off my body, then drag my ass to the bathroom to relieve myself and brush my teeth.
I feed Birdie her dinner, make myself coffee, and toss two frozen waffles into the toaster. Once my sad little breakfast is nice and crispy, I slather it with butter and syrup and sit on a stool at the counter to dig in.
My phone beeps with notifications. I start with texts, first answering my father to assure him I haven’t been mugged or murdered.
Next, I respond to my bestie, Farrah, asking about plans for my birthday in August, which is still a couple months away. I’d love to do a singles cruise this year. Farrah is my age and swears after too many failed relationships that she’ll never get married.
She still lives upstate in Macedon and teaches at the same school where I worked as a nurse before moving to NYC. She gives me all the gossip about my ex and other assholes in that town who I no longer care about—but love hearing the tea on.
My boss also texted me, asking if I’d pick up an extra shift next week, which I agree to, since I could always use a bigger paycheck.
I skim through my emails but don’t see anything pressing. I’m about to go to my social media accounts, where I never post but mostly lurk and doom scroll, when I spot a red bubble hovering over theKiss-meetapp.
My heart kicks into gear and pounds against my chest.
Did I get a match? How? I didn’t even swipe or heart any profiles.
My finger shakes as I tap the icon. Why am I so nervous? Maybe it’s because I’m forty yearsold on a dating app.
