2
LIAM
THE SUN IS getting lower in the sky and so far, there’s been absolutely no movement on this street. People have come and gone, but there’s been nothing that sets tonight apart from any other night. My cap is pulled low and the car I’m in is nondescript. I do my best to keep a low profile when I’m around these parts so they don’t know I’m watching.
This has been my life for the last three years, and I have a serious love/hate relationship with it—because that’s what this has become: my only relationship. Of course, it will be worth it in the end. I have no doubts about that, but sometimes, I just miss that extra touch having someone in my life would provide.
I need to get laid.
I know, I know, what thirty-year-old guy doesn’t, right? Except maybe some of the married ones who were lucky enough to find a woman they can have that with. My job doesn’t allow for someone like that in my life, which is why I’m sitting in my dark-tinted sedan throwing a pity party. Number of attendees: one.
I’m not great at picking up women in bars. I don’t quite have the finesse my looks suggest. I’m not stupid—I know I’m good-looking, know I could have just about any woman I want, but I don’t know how to actually make that happen.
I never know what to say to women when confronted. What do they want me to say? How do I say I just want a quick lay without sounding like a douchebag? I’m aware that I have douchebag tendencies, but I don’t love advertising it.
And yes, I realize it’s ridiculous. What grown-ass man doesn’t know how to talk to a woman? What have I been doing with my time?
Well, let’s just say my work keeps me plenty occupied. A woman would only complicate matters more, make my life harder. Not only that, it would probably put her life in danger, and I definitely don’t have time for that shit.
A sigh leaves me and I rub the side of my face, the side that has seat belt marks on it from falling asleep in my car. I hate doing that, but I often don’t get a choice in the matter. I desperately need a night in a bed, preferably after I’ve had my fill of someone, but I’m not a picky bastard—just a bed would do.
I debate whether or not I want to pull up the app I hate getting on, but when it comes down to it, with my terrible pick-up lines and awkward silences, I need the app to do the hard part for me. All I have to do is match with someone and they know the drill.
Tilting my head from one side to the other, I weigh my options. One, I get a hotel room, look over all the work I’ve done today on my laptop, order room service, and binge on some sort of TV before passing out. Two, I find a date, have some food, and spend the night in her bed.
Either option sounds pretty good right now, to be honest. I could definitely get on board with option A.
On the other hand, since I’ll be off the grid for a few weeks in a couple of days, I should probably meet up with someone while I can. I reluctantly pull up the app and start browsing. I’m not picky; I just want a woman I can have minimal conversation with, one who is maybe funny and—if I’m lucky—a good lay.
That’s not too much to ask for, is it?
Swiping, I find a few who might work and put them on my ‘maybe’ list. There are a few I immediately pass up—like the ones with cats in the picture with them…yeah, no, thank you—then I stop. The brunette whose picture just filled my screen is definitely someone I wouldn’t mind spending the night devouring.
I hesitate over her photo. She looks…normal, in a great way, like not crazy kind of normal, the kind of normal you’d take home to Mom, someone who has ‘serious girlfriend material’ written all over her face.
That’s not what I’m looking for. It’s actually the opposite of what I’m looking for.
However, I can’t help but tap the heart button under her photo. Maybe if it’s meant to be, she’ll tap it too.
Not even a minute after liking her photo, I get a notification from the app.
Congrats! You’ve been Super-Liked by Margaret!
“Shit.” She’s definitely girlfriend material.