Page 56 - Vol. V #6

(Ghosting continued form preceding page)
“Rachel tells me that your company just got a sec- ond round of funding,” Abby said, deflecting the conversation to a woman two spots over from her at the table. She did something with computer hardware, Abby seemed to recall.
too aggressive or too sweet—and contained the usual basket of information to sort through: He was from Illinois, worked as an attorney, and professed to have similar interests in music and film. And his profile photo suggested that he was strikingly handsome. He had bright green eyes, two lily pads floating in water, a ski slope nose and severe rectangular glasses. It was only his hair, brambled and slightly curly, that softened him enough that Abby felt he was safe to touch.
Rachel tossed her a peeved look but the tide of conversation swept her attention to the guest’s discussion of the new product the company was bringing to market. Abby took another sip of wine, happy that no one discovered that she had no more anecdotes to share, she was fresh out of cards. Abby watched the conversation move beyond her reach, leaving her on an island away from these people with their money and their exciting hobbies and social obligations.
In crafting a response to him, she wrote that she was getting her PhD in molecular genetics. She had been trained through previous dating expe- riences to say that her field of science involved proteins. No one really asked her to elaborate. But reading her message aloud to herself in her quiet apartment, she was surprised by how flat it sounded. So she added that her passion was cooking, even if she didn’t last more than six weeks in culinary school.
Instead, she had tests to run. Results to enter into databases. Numbers to sift through and write about. Her head suddenly pulsed with pain. It started out as a point on her forehead but then spread until it was a vice between her ears. She could think of no better solution than to run into the night, feel the fog on her shoulders and the freedom of getting in a cab and getting far away from this place.
She sent the message and resumed her evening routine of replying to emails, packing her gym bag for the morning, and putting away the last of her dishes. Outside, the sidewalk was blank and clean, unmarred by gum, children’s chalk, or even jogger’s sneakers. Her neighborhood in Oakland retired early. Some nights on runs she’d not see anyone for blocks, her feet echoing across the pavement and into the infinite dark.
After the dessert was served, Abby made a quick apology about needing to go. She had an early morning tomorrow, a paper to write. After expres- sions of regret, she left. People understood.
~
~
Abby met The Ex-Whatever online. He was not firm enough in memory or importance to war- rant the “boyfriend” moniker, but the tug in
her gut felt too real to dismiss as just an ego- bruised couple of texts. Rachel had been the one to recommend online dating. There was something unsatisfying about it—thousands
of tech bros with similar photos, professing their love of rock climbing, Game of Thrones, and craft beer—but Abby found there were no better alternatives. In her commutes between cities, encounters at the lab and gym, her social circles were as limited as a rootbound plant.
The first time he texted her, a few days later, she was getting ready for bed. Abby had forgotten to turn off her phone before going to sleep: “Hey! How about dinner on Friday?”
His initial message was benign enough—neither 47
Abby considered texting him back while she was having breakfast in the university’s cafe. She wrote four different responses while motoring through her granola. But then deleted all of them. She wondered how he would respond if she told him she was busy, but yes, Friday might work. Would the uncertainty appear alluring? Then there was the timing. If she replied too early, she’d appear desperate. How available did she want to appear? Her weekend calendar loomed