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1
MARGARET
A SIGH ESCAPES my mouth as another disgruntled customer purses her lips, angry at me for a policy I did not make up. Alas, I’m the one she has to deal with, so the upset individual is very intent on letting me know who’s really to blame. This day will never end.
“What does that even mean?” Her red lipstick is garish under the lights of the store, her perfectly straightened blonde hair flowing over her shoulders like she just walked off some runway, and the thought I can’t help but think is wondering what she could possibly be so dressed up for on a Thursday afternoon. If she’s here, what kind of job does she have?
“It’s policy, ma’am, that you must present a receipt with the purchased item to return it. The other reason I can’t accept this is because of the large hole in the side here.” I show her the spot I’m talking about, as if she already didn’t know it was there, which is actually what she’s claiming. My voice is placating even though I’m trying not to sound condescending, but it’s hard when she seems to think anything I’m saying couldn’t possibly be important.
“Well, that’s absolutely ridiculous.” She talks like she’s a trophy wife straight out of the nineties when she can’t be more than five years older than me. Her suit is ill-fitting, a stark contrast to her red lips and perfect hair. I wonder why she’s not returning that outfit. “I want to speak to a manager.”
I paste on a patient smile, even when my insides tell me to scream or cry or something, and reply, “Unfortunately our manager is currently unavailable.” As I’ve already said.
She scoffs in my face, flinging a smattering of spit toward my chest, and I have the fleeting, sad realization that I’m just grateful it isn’t on my face. “Well, you can let that manager know I won’t be shopping here ever again, and you’ve made a big mistake messing with me.”
I scrunch my eyebrows as she stomps away in her heels. Did she just paraphrase Pretty Woman?
Another deep-heaved sigh leaves me as I continue to help with returns. I get lucky with a couple of customers who have their receipts and don’t give me any trouble, but my day doesn’t pass in a blur like I hoped it would. Instead, I stand like a robot doing restocks and returns until my feet can’t handle it anymore.
This is my life. Welcome.
Turning the key, I try to shove open the door to my tiny studio apartment. It still sticks like crazy, even after numerous complaints to the super. It turns out he really just does not care and leaves it up to the people who pay to be there to take care of the things he’s supposed to be doing. He’s a world-class gentleman, I tell you.
I lean my shoulder into the difficult door and it lets out a groan, but thankfully, it opens. I walk in, putting up an opposite fight on the other side.
The quiet greets me and I frown, hating that I’m the only single person I know in this city. Any friends I have are so busy with their boyfriends or husbands or girlfriends that hanging out with other people is low on their list of priorities these days.
It’s selfish of me, I know, to wish they were single and lonely again so I’d have someone to share the quiet with. It used to not bother me so much, being alone, but after I finished college and couldn’t find a job to save my life, everything else just started to change. I didn’t have a boyfriend or a nice apartment, or even a job I liked. Nothing turned out how I wanted it to.
Kicking my shoes off by the door, I head to my kitchen area and rummage through the pantry for dinner. I note the amount of pasta I have, look for anything else I might have in the fridge, and ultimately decide I’ll be having…pasta for dinner.
Pathetic.
Why am I like this? My mind has been stuck on this negative journey of thought today. It started with Ms. Uppity and just continued from there. No matter how much I try, I can’t seem to dig myself out of this slump.
Waiting for the noodles to boil, I think of something my friend Anne said about how online dating would be a great way to find someone, to connect with someone in the real world. Maybe it’s time to give it a try.
Thumbing through my phone, I find the app I installed but didn’t have the courage to actually launch yet, hesitant to give in to the urge to try it out. I suppose I could try to actually go out to a bar and get picked up, or hell, maybe I’d find my soul mate.
I bite my lip and think it over. Can I do it? Can I try out the app and really put myself out there?
Who knows, the one guy I meet on the app could be the one. I know what my friends would say if I told them that—they’d say I was absolutely crazy for thinking I could meet my soul mate on a hookup app, but hey, stranger things have happened. Look at Pretty Woman, right? I mean, someone thought a prostitute could fall in love with a rich guy and he’d fall for her and bam! Happy ending.
I click the side of my phone, shutting off the screen, and stir my pot of pasta. The only harm that could come from signing up would be…what? A guy gets his kicks and I don’t?
I mean, that would be pretty shitty, but not the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.
There’s always the other side of this, the positive that outweighs the negative, the pros over the cons. Even though I could end up with a jerk, I could also end up meeting someone I really hit it off with. I could finally have someone to fill the quiet in my life, someone to tell about my nasty day, someone who would listen when I was stressed or tired or just unsure of what to do with my life.
A giddy bubble of happiness fills me, and I smile at the thought of having my own person. Mind made up, I grab for my phone and tap the app open then enter my information. I wait for it to load and start swiping.
This is actually kind of fun, I think as I swipe on a guy who’s easy on the eyes. Why did I think I wouldn’t like this? It’s like a virtual version of The Bachelorette: Hey, Baseball1228, will you accept this rose?
I snort to myself and continue swiping. The smirk I have on my face stays in place and I snuggle deeper into the comforter on my bed, my bowl of pasta beside me, loving that I can do this and still stay in pajamas, hair on its third day of dry shampoo and my face free of makeup.
Who needs bars?
I continue my tirade of swiping then I suddenly stop. Chocolatey eyes peer at me and my breath catches. He’s absolutely gorgeous—completely out of my league, but…damn.
I could swipe and he’d get notified, but what if he doesn’t like what he sees on my profile? Despite what I look like at present, my profile picture is one of my better ones, full pouty lips covered in red lipstick, hair shiny and done in soft waves…
I sigh, giving this more thought than is really necessary. I stare at his picture then shrug. What is life without a little risk, right?
Swipe.
