Page 14 of Single-Minded
“Huh?” I ask, taking another bite. These suckers are addictive.
“My sister takes a little cannabis for her glaucoma. Medical grade, of course. Good stuff,” she says.
It takes a second to register.
“Are you saying these muffins have pot in them?” I ask incredulously. Suddenly, I start cracking up. Am I really eating chocolate pot muffins with my eighty-year-old neighbor? Yes, I am. And it’s not even the weirdest thing to happen to me this week.
Zelda starts giggling when I start cracking up, and before long we’re just roaring with laughter. We laugh ourselves silly between bites, and I’ve downed two muffins by the time the marijuana starts making my brain fuzzy.
I’ve barely processed what’s happened, nothing makes any sense to me. But I’m apparently too stoned to care. I start laughing again when I tell Zelda that the only time in my whole, measured life that I’ve ever tried pot is with my eighty-year-old party animal neighbor. Zelda and I are rolling around on the floor with our feet propped up on the coffee table, laughing so hard I’m in danger of wetting myself.
“So you didn’t have a clue about Michael?” she asks.
“Nope. Honestly, I always figured our sex life was so, um, let’s saycomfortablebecause neither one of us ever had any practice before we got married.”
Zelda snorts, and takes another bite.
“Also, I didn’t really want to open that can of worms if it turned out I was just the worst in bed ever and Michael was just being nice all these years. Of course, what would he know?”
I didn’t tell her what I’ve really been thinking: I’m thirty-one years old, for fuck’s sake. Apsychologist.How did I not notice that my husband is gay? Am I an idiot?
“Don’t you dare tell my grandma Leona that we ate pot muffins!” I say, trying to look serious, but completely unable to keep a straight face. Zelda and my grandma hit it off at a barbecue Michael and I had a couple of years ago. They’ve been really tight ever since.
“Who do you think gave me the recipe?” she roars.
Zelda and I hang out, wasted like college students, for another hour or so, and then she calls for Gabbiano and the two of them head out the door. She’s buzzed too, so I watch her from my front door to make sure she’s okay, until I see her go inside her house and turn on her porch light.
As soon as she’s home, I text Michael and tell him to come get his crap, and that I don’t want to see or hear him.
I’m sitting on the couch in my pajamas, as my muffin buzz starts to dissipate, watching house porn on HGTV, and wondering if my life would suck less with a renovated kitchen.
It would definitely suck less if thatProperty Brothersguy Jonathan Scott were renovating my kitchen.
A laugh gurgles up out of nowhere. Jonathan Scott renovating my kitchen sounds like a euphemism for sex. The sweaty kind. Hmmpf. Not that I would know.
Two hours later, the suitcases have disappeared from the front porch, which is devastating and a relief at the same time. I haven’t left the couch, except to peek out the window.
Michael being gay has nothing whatsoever to do with me, but it burns like the worst sort of rejection.
I want to be loved. I want to be ravaged. I need validation that I’m still desirable, that I’m not frigid or stupid. I have an aching, sickening feeling that no straight man will ever want me. Or love me. I feel like I have something to prove.
Which is how I end up downloading Closr at the stroke of midnight, and texting with some stranger at one in the morning, while simultaneously raiding my refrigerator in a mad search for something topped with bacon. I know, pathetic. In my defense, I’m probably still pretty wasted. At least that’s what I’ll tell Darcy and Samantha if this goes terribly, terribly wrong. Closr is a dating app that connects singles with potential matches in their immediate proximity. The app notifies you if there’s a compatible singleton nearby, and then their photo appears on your phone or tablet. If you think they’re attractive, and they think you’re attractive, the app makes a match and encourages the two matches to send an introductory text from a multiple-choice selection of casual, racy, and pithy openers—and even suggests nearby places to meet up, such as a dance club, a coffee shop, or a bookstore. When my first match appears on my phone, I’m surprised. Markmatics, as he calls himself, looks fairly normal. Cute, even. Well, cute-ish. Maybe cute-adjacent. Early forties, short brown hair, dark eyes, toothy grin. And then the Closr app suggests we meet up nearby. At the gas station. Because really, what sparks romance like fluorescent lighting and microwave burritos? And how convenient that you can nuke your dinner, pick up some fishing lures, and get beer and prophylactics all in one place.
Why are you up so late?comes the text from Markmatics.
Jet lag,I respond, feeling oddly guilty, like I’m cheating on Michael or something.
Europe? Asia?texts Markmatics.
New York,I write back.
Yeah, the New York–Florida time difference is a killer,he writes. Okay, so he’s almost sort of funny.
Long day yesterday, long night, early flight. Is there a word for NYC-lag?
No but there should be,he texts.Hey—is Closr suggesting to you that we meet up at the Exxon station too? Or is the Closr algorithm just making some unkind assumptions about my level of sophistication?
Yes. Kind of weird.
