She had 17 new requests to chat. Yeah, right— they wouldn’t be chat requests, but rather fuck requests. Thanks, guys, I’m all chatted out and my fuck request meter is broken.
She knew it was all right, deep down. That’s what she wanted— she wanted more of last night. The magic. The thrill. Being charmed and charming someone back. Falling into that special knowing and feeling warm and safe and excited all at once, the heady passion of the new.
The image of the pictures all over Dylan’s room filled her brain—that woman, his girlfriend, his wife, his whatever. He didn’t wear a ring, but that didn’t mean anything. She had learned that within her second or third date after college. The married men always lied and they tended to be the slickest—and this guy was pretty slick. Laura took a deep breath and it almost tasted like he was in her, as if his scent had permeated her lungs, as if it coated her trachea, as if—
Inhale. Exhale. She breathed in, she breathed out—breathed in sadness, breathed out happiness, breathed in sorrow, breathed out joy. No matter how hard she tried, though, it wasn’t cutting it. Caffeine would have to do what meditation could not, no matter what her yoga teacher said about the evils of coffee. You can pry my caffeine from my cold, dead, outstretched hand.
She sucked down the cup of coffee, poured herself another and thought what the hell and clicked on one of those chat messages in email. Hmmm. Hey there, Mike, she thought to herself. Some guy named Mike wanted to meet or wanted to chat with her. Mike— let’s see, he’s 32, 6’5”, 180, okay he sounded like a runner. Online dating was devolving into ordering from a menu. Would you like fries with that?
There it was: “likes to run marathons and works at a ski resort.” Oh, dear— her idea of running was waving madly at the bus driver and sprinting when she was late for the morning bus, and skiing? Lodge. Hot toddy. Not snow.
Deleting his message would have been the easiest thing in the world, and her finger even hovered over the button, but something stopped her. If Josie had been there and asked, Laura couldn’t have explained it. She just...stopped. Clicking to his profile, she read up on him. He looked kind of like the opposite of Dylan. This guy had sandy blonde hair and Nordic features while Dylan was Italian and dark and swarthy. Mike looked long and lean with pictures of him riding a bike, shots of him crossing finish lines, and pictures of him camping.
Camping. She shuddered. Her idea of camping was no mint on the pillow. She wasn’t sure this was going to work. And then she read his little intro about himself:
“Hi, my name is Mike Pine, I am 32 years old. I am really new to this online dating thing. I am very active and athletic, work at a ski resort, I teach skiing and also work on the first aid team. In my spare time, I like to run and camp and bike, and I’m looking for friendship or more, whatever and would like to chat with other people who are interested in the same thing—”
Beep-blip! A little chat window popped up and Laura splashed coffee on her hand in surprise at the unexpected sound. “Ow!” she shouted, grabbing a kitchen towel and shaking it out. “What the hell!?” She peered at the now lit-up screen, a familiar chat window open in the right lower-hand corner.
“Oh, geez,” she sputtered, her words echoing through her empty apartment. Somehow he had figured out she was online, ‘cause this was a chat from Marathon Mike himself.
Hi, there. Are you on right now?
Oh, God, she still had the smell of Dylan on her and now she had some new guy coming after her? What a slut she was. She thought about that for a second. The word slut didn’t really apply to her, ever. It was more that she was trying on new behaviors. Let’s try this one on for size, she thought.
I’m just drinking my coffee and getting ready for work and I logged in and saw your message, so hi!
Oh, good morning! Yeah, I’m not really functional without two or three cups of coffee myself.
He added a little grin icon.
Hmph... yeah who isn’t, she thought.
Laura chugged the rest of her mug’s contents and typed, one-handed,
So I see you’re, like, Mr. Triathlon and ski dude, and my idea of exercise is walking across the room to get the remote.
He wrote back several lines at once:
lolol, yeah don’t be afraid, we could just go for a hike if you want.
Oh, I think I just asked you out.
Yeah I did.
?
“Oh, man,” she muttered. She stared at the glowing screen, dumbfounded, her empty coffee mug dangling precariously off her right index finger as she absorbed this. What was this? Did she hit the good-looking guy lottery? Out of the blue, she just—oh, she had just totally ditched Dylan in his bed last night, and now she had some guy who looked like a lankier version of the actor who played Thor hitting on her, but deep inside she decided she was trying on this new act, and she would just go for it.