Maybe
2023
She swipes right. (Or maybe responds to a man in person; it doesn’t really matter).
Another man.
More small talk.
Your dog is cute. What do you do for a living? How long have you been in the area?
Maybe he’s creepy and she ends it quick.
If there are jokes, a good conversation over several days, maybe she gives him her number.
He’s excited. She’s been through too much for that.
He compliments her looks. She smiles thinly.
She knows what he likes about her at this point.
They meet and she tries to pay for her own drink then lets him pay.
They chat.
Despite it all, she’s mildly hopeful.
Maybe this time.
Maybe he lets her talk.
Maybe he asks about her and is interested in the answers.
Maybe he doesn’t say anything alarming; maybe she finds him attractive; maybe she likes who he seems to be so far.
They hug goodbye.
Maybe he goes for a kiss.
Maybe she wants to kiss him too.
Maybe that matters.
Days continue.
He keeps reaching out.
He’s more excited.
Maybe this one is different.
Maybe they go on more dates.
She finds herself smiling at his texts.
Thinking, “That’s so cute.” Thinking, “Wow, he really likes me.”
Maybe he’s sweet to her.
Maybe she feels like herself around him.
Maybe she feels seen for the first time in a long time.
Maybe he makes her feel less lonely.
She does kind things for him, because she can’t not.
She starts reaching out first in the mornings.
Maybe she tells him she likes him.
He talks about meeting her son, trips they’ll take just the two of them, things far ahead.
She starts to think just a little into the future—not too far because it never works, but just a little bit.
Maybe she’ll have someone to roast hot dogs with this Fourth of July.
Maybe next open mic night, there will be a special someone in the crowd for her.
She lets herself take little glimpses, like nibbling the summer’s juiciest peach before it goes bad.
Because it always goes bad.
This is around the time it always goes bad.
One day, he’s in her kitchen, cuddling her dog while she cooks, or they’re taking turns reading poetry on his couch, with kisses interspersed, and the next day, he’s texting her a little less.
Maybe it’s a couple extra hours before he responds.
She tells herself he’s busy.
But the next day, it’s a little longer before she hears from him.
She realizes how she’s come to love having someone to share the little things from her day with.
How in a few short weeks or months, you can become addicted to someone’s attention.
Sometimes it’s so much better than being alone.
Eventually, he’s gone.
One way or another.
There are as many ways as there are stars in the sky they kissed under that one time.
She almost never knows the real why.
He’s just thinking about her all the time, and then he’s not.
She cries a little. Or a lot.
Hides it from her son.
Her friends and her therapist tell her it was nothing she did wrong, but they can’t answer this pounding question in her head: If it’s not her, why does it keep happening?
She deletes the app.
Gets her feet back under her, returns to her peace and the joy she finds on her own.
Thinks about him some, and then less.
Until one day, she gets hopeful again—or desperate—and redownloads the app. (Or responds to a new man in person).
She swipes right.
It begins all over again, but the hope and excitement take longer to come.
Are smaller now.
The joy isn’t as bright.
The fear and anticipation of him leaving grip her a with a colder, more unrelenting hand when he takes a while to answer a text.
She used to wonder how many times she had to swipe right to find her person.
Eventually, though, she wonders how many times she has to swipe right before she
just
stops
trying.