I’m in a much better mood now that I’ve got a belly full of seafood tacos. My team has given me the full green light to go ahead with everything. The contract is already being reviewed by our legal staff. I glance down at the most recent messages from Geoff on my phone.
You’re really doing it? Fantastic! The exposure is going to be epic!
The message is punctuated by hearts, shooting stars, and starry-eyed emojis.
Geoff’s uncharacteristic use of emojis suggests he’s a little giddy, as well as starstruck.
I told you I’d do it.
Why is he acting so surprised?
Yeah, none of us believed you.
Whatever.
I slip my phone back into my pocket.
“Most people aren’t deliberately trying to deceive the algorithm,” I explain to Rory. “Usually they are also lying to themselves. The assessments are really good at catching people when they aren’t being truthful. And we all lie. We lie about our diets, our fitness levels, and what we like to do in our spare time. Everyone wants to present a sort of idealized version of themselves on their dating profile. But do you want to hear a secret?”
I lean across the table, thinking that Rory smells nice. Sweet. Is it vanilla? She’s flirting with me. But she’s so young. I have the distinct feeling that anything I did with her wouldn’t make me feel better about being the last man standing in my close friend group. It would make me feel a little dirty. Sad. And ultimately, more alone.
I don’t know why I’m so loath to try my software on myself. I should be looking for someone compatible to share my life with. Someone to shop for couches with and binge whole seasons of TV shows with. The only thing we’d fight over is whose turn it was to choose the take-out dinners. Maybe we could get a dog and start an ironic Instagram account for it. I’m well into my thirties. It’s time to settle down already.
It’s the settling part I’m having a problem with though. The idea of waking up to the same person every day for the rest of my life? No surprises? No more possibilities? Plus, I really don’t want to give up hot sex. A part of me is really disappointed in myself. I really thought that once my frontal lobe gelled a bit more I’d be less of a horndog and more practical. I don’t want to end up alone. And yet, given the choice between hot sex and someone to choose sofa upholstery with, I choose hot sex. Every time.
Nevermind, that most of the hot sex I’ve had in the last year or so hasn’t been all that hot. It’s all starting to feel a bit washed out and unsatisfying. Missing the secret spice. I can’t flip the cap on whatever that is, or I would. I would shake it all over my “love” life like my beloved hot sauce on my tacos. I’m not even sure exactly what’s missing. Everything just seems so pallid. The same.
That’s probably why Isla Fairfax made me trip harder than a tomcat huffing catnip. That woman is saucy. The fantasies keep recurring.
“What?” Rory leans towards me and bites her lip a little suggestively.
“Huh?” I blush, realizing my train of thought has jumped the tracks again. This seems to happen every time I think about Isla.
“You were telling me a secret about people’s dating profiles,” Rory smirks, licks her lips, and unbuttons her off-white jacket to reveal a pale pink camisole underneath. At lunch, she ordered a salad and then ate it without dressing because she didn’t want to risk dripping anything on her white suit.
That is so not happening.
“Right,” I nod, backing it up a smidge and sliding back into the conversation neatly like I’m coaxing a zipper to behave. “The secret that almost nobody realizes is that most people shy away from perfect dating profiles. They don’t trust them. When a profile is too glossy and good, it doesn’t get as many matches. Deep down we all want to find people who share our same level of shortcomings and our penchants for weird junk food. What’s the point of matching with someone who’s gonna make you feel crappy about yourself? Ideally, we’re all hoping to find ourselves a mate with our same kinks.”
“Is this your way of telling me you’re kinky?” Rory teases.
I have always had a thing for redheads.
The thought pops into my head, unbidden and irrelevant, as Rory is blonde.
“Nerds are all kinky, Kiddo,” I say, lobbing back the volley without any force.
“Ha!” Rory smiles coyly and swivels in her rolling seat. With a shove, she propels herself back and away from the table. She reaches for a magazine on the desk and then rolls gracefully back to the table like she is performing a ballet on office chair wheels.
“So tell me, what do you call yourthing?” she murmurs, leafing through the magazine.
“My thing?” I glance down at my crotch, reflexively. Rory catches me looking and meets my eye as I look back up. She laughs and folds back the magazine page to a photo of me from an interview I did last year.Thirty-five Tech Moguls under Thirty-five.
“Notthat thing,” she smirks.
I shift uncomfortably.
Rory taps the magazine. “I was actually wondering if you have a name for the Algorithm. Like do you call it ‘Al’ or ‘Tony or something? You didn’t mention it in the article.”
