But we always have Sunday and Monday off. The salon is flat-out closed. Not even the spa is open, which makes some of our clients angry, considering they want to get a massage after an extra-stressful Monday, for example. And hey, I get it. But Connie, the owner of the salon and spa, won’t budge from her very firm schedule. She’s a believer in the entire staff having two full days off.
And I appreciate that about her.
Anyway, I’m already in bed, yet it’s only a little after nine at night. There’s a glass of wine on my bedside table, along with a small plate with cheese, crackers and salami, plus a few chilled grapes. My own personal charcuterie board.
I suppose I should catch up on Ozark, since everyone’s currently watching and going crazy about it on social media. I’ve been putting it off, because while I love the show, it’s so freaking stressful I can barely stand watching it sometimes. (Spoiler alert) Like that toenail-ripping scene? My God, that gave me nightmares.
So yeah, I’m not watching Netflix or Hulu or any of those streaming channels tonight. I’ve got my phone in my hand, and I’m scrolling through my prospects on the Rate a Date app. The more I scroll, the frownier my face gets. Like, I am full-on frowning, but that’s only because I’m so disappointed. This all just feels so…
Fake.
A lot of the guys’ photos seem really staged, which I guess shouldn’t be a surprise. I look at the men’s profiles that were recommended to me, and while some of them are extremely attractive and they claim to have good jobs, I don’t know how I feel about this—this entire situation.
Am I getting scammed? I’m as real as someone gets, according to Caroline. I’m going to put it all out there for the most part. Are these guys doing the same?
Doubtful.
I’m sure there are some nice guys on this dating site, app, whatever you want to call it. Not all of them can be con artists, right? There are still decent human beings out there. I know there are.
“Oh no.” I whisper this under my breath, my fingers scrambling to tap on the inbox icon. I never did answer Mand.94, which makes me feel like total shit—like I’m one of those deceptive people on dating sites.
Not good. Not good at all.
I open my inbox to find I do have a message waiting for me from Mand.94 that’s approximately nine hours old, so I open it immediately, feeling terrible that I left him hanging for so long.
This is me, the flighty girl who keeps it real and who might also have a slight touch of ADD. And realizing I totally ignored someone?
I can’t help but feel guilty.
Opening the message, I grab a piece of cheese and nibble on it as I read what he said.
I forgot to answer your question.
A smile touches the corners of my lips. Good for him, realizing that he didn’t answer me.
I work with athletes.
Another message.
I need a haircut.
Well, the polite thing would be to answer him, so I do. Make an appointment and I’ll cut your hair for you. Where do you live?
I send another message. And are you like a physical therapist or something?
Surprisingly enough, he responds almost immediately. Yeah. Something like that. I’m moving to Las Vegas soon for my job. I live in San Ramon right now.
Oh. He’s probably like, a party guy. Who wants to actually work and live in Las Vegas?
Well, lots of people, of course. Definitely not me. I love going there on occasion, and it’ll be fun to go for Caroline’s bachelorette party, but I don’t think I ever want to live there.
Though I’m sort of jumping the gun, thinking about this guy and moving to Vegas for him. I don’t even know what he looks like. Meaning I should ask for a photo, though that’s risky. He might send me a dick pic, and then it’s over before he really ever had a chance.
Deciding to go for it, I send him a message.
Why don’t you have any photos of yourself on your profile?
He responds to my question fairly quickly, which is nice.
You want to see a pic of me?
Uh, yeah, is what I want to type. Instead I say:
If you don’t mind.
Within seconds he sends me his answer and I stare at it, noticing the little paperclip by it. That means there’s a photo attached. Anticipation courses through me and I wait for a few seconds. Then a few more. Questions roll through my mind.
What if he’s hideous?
What if he’s beyond gorgeous?
Both possibilities scare the crap out of me. I have to be attracted to him, right? But I also don’t want him to be prettier than me. That’ll give me a complex,
I have enough complexes already, thank you very much.
After about three minutes of me imagining all sorts of scenarios, I finally open my message and click on the tiny photo attached, my eyes widening when I take him in.
Oh, he’s very…big. As in muscular. Muscles on muscles. He looks tall and broad and like he could mow someone down with ease. He’s definitely very physical. I can see his defined muscles, all that smooth skin exposed, even though he’s clad in a simple black T-shirt, the fabric clinging downright lovingly to his chest.
His biceps—they’re impressive. The sculpted shoulders. They’re impressive too. He has golden-brown hair that’s a little too long and curls at the ends around his face, and friendly brown eyes that seem to smile when he smiles. A lean jaw and a sumptuous mouth. He’s very attractive.
Okay, fine. He’s hot.
A message comes through right as I’m staring at his photo. Send me a photo of you.
I go to my profile to see, yep, there’s the photo Kelsey took of me in my avatar.
You’ve already seen me.
I’d like to see you again. Like right now, he says.
Deciding I may as well go for it, I hold my phone out, tilt my head to the side, stretch my lips into a smile and take a selfie, then check the photo out.
Huh. Should I use a filter? Maybe I should use the dog filter. I always feel like I look super cute with it, the floppy ears and the long, pink tongue. It’s silly and cute and hides what I think is my big nose. Or there’s that other filter on Snapchat, the one that makes my skin look really smooth.
I don’t even have makeup on, my hair is in a messy bun, and here I am contemplating sending him this selfie? Kelsey would tell me no way. She’d make me delete the photo, we’d end up having a “quick” makeup session, and though it would take about thirty minutes and approximately thirty tries with the camera, I’d finally have what Kelsey would consider a semi-decent selfie to send this guy. Mitch. With the friendly brown eyes and the big, muscular body. I bet he knows how to throw a girl around in bed and not wimp out. Not complain about his back once it’s all said and done, like it’s all your fault he hurt himself in the relatively simple act of sex.
Yeah, maybe that’s happened to me before. So what?
Deciding to go for it, I take another photo. And another. No filters. No doggy ears. No floppy, long tongue. When I’m semi-pleased with the results, I send the photo, trying my best to not overthink it.
I immediately take a giant gulp of my wine and then nibble on a piece of cheese. And another one. Pop a few grapes in my mouth. My gaze never leaves my phone screen and when he finally, finally responds, I nearly sag with relief.
I’m sticking to my first statement. You’re absolutely beautiful.