By: Matt Mercado

            I had just broken up with my ex. It was my first breakup, which meant I handled things poorly. To make it worse, we were still living together. A precarious financial situation meant shared captivity was the only option. Shit, we were stuck together for another two months. I downloaded Tinder out of boredom and panic, just to see what other creatures were roaming this college town. I wasn’t looking for anything meaningful, just proof that I could still pull a woman.

               The thing about Tinder is it’s less a dating app and more a marketplace for the desperate. Naturally, I fit right in. I swiped without thinking. Left, right, left, right. Everyone was the same. They either loved tacos, wanted the next adventure, or the works. All of it translated into getting blackout drunk at some shitty bar that didn’t card.

Then I landed on her.

               Green hair. It wasn’t a soft, experimental green. It was aggressive, committed. This was all a telling sign that she’d fought her conservative boomer parents and won. Her bio was short and simple. I liked that. She was sarcastic about hating men, dating them anyway, and wishing she was a lesbian.

I swiped right. She matched almost immediately.

               We exchanged a few messages. There was nothing memorable about the conversations. Mostly logistics: how we’d meet, what we’d do, and that usual stuff. The flirting was abysmal on my part, but she seemed to accept it.

“Hey. Are you looking for your next biggest disappointment?”

She responded with a simple, “no.”

I expected this, so naturally I wrote, “Well, too late. Here I am.”

She didn’t reply for a minute. It was long enough for me to regret everything I’d ever said to a woman.

Then, “Fine. When?”

               We agreed on a time and place: my apartment, 10:00. My ex was still around. Foolproof plan. Here I was sitting on the edge of my bed when the phone buzzed.

“Here. I parked in the garage.”

               I stood up and immediately became aware of everything wrong in the apartment. There was a strong odor of cigarette smoke, stale alcohol, and vomit—all from the party I threw the night before.

               I opened the door and let her in. The ex slinked off and slammed the door in a passive-aggressive manner. It was one of those things that was sort of cute and funny to me, but meant everything to her.

“Someone else here?” she asked.

“My ex,” I said. “We’re still living together.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Bold,” she said. “I respect the chaos.”

Some endorsement. Not the one I wanted, but fair enough, I’ll take it.

“Is she cool?” she whispered.

“No,” I said. “But she’s occupied.”

What a complete lie. My ex appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing some sweatshirt she’d stolen from my laundry.

“Oh,” she said. “You’ve got company, I see.”

“Briefly, don’t get your panties in a wad.”

The green-haired girl looked at her, then at me.

“Well, this is awkward.”

My ex laughed. “Good luck.” Then walked back into her room again.

I led the green-haired girl toward the guest bedroom where I was staying. She settled in on the modular couch. It was nice because you could turn it into a bed. Perfect for the spontaneous encounters.

I asked her, “So, you want a drink?”

“Sure. I’ll risk it.”

I went to the fridge and pulled out a couple of sodas I had left. Then, the half-empty bottle of bourbon on the counter. Back to the guest room, closed the door.

“So,” she said, “are you sad about the break-up or just chilling?”

“Oh yeah, but it was a long time coming.”

“I get that.”

I was not great at making conversation with women, especially when sober. So what better thing to do than to make an attempt at foreplay?

“What is your position on international politics such as the Russia-Ukraine war?”

“Do you always lead with geopolitics?”

“It is my major.”

She stared at me. The look in her eyes told me she was already reconsidering being here. I couldn’t let her leave though. Not after everything I’d already fumbled through.

“I’m actually,” I said, “kind of a sex machine.”

She blinked.

“Like,” I continued, “a lot of women have tried to tame me.”

She took a sip of her drink. This was going to be a long night.

“Failed,” I added.

“Uh huh.”

“Matt the stallion,” I said.

She set her glass down on the table, crossed her legs, and finally made eye contact. “Welp. I guess we should find out.”

She guided me back towards the couch-bed, already unfolded, waiting to see what kind of woman I would bed here tonight. I leaned into her, attempting to portray a man who knew what the hell he was doing. I fumbled with my clothes; the strings on my pants were giving me grief. She didn’t laugh, just sighed. That was arguably worse.

“You’re getting too worked up; just be natural.”

“Well damnit, that isn’t really my forte.”

               I tried to be confident. There were things I’d seen in online pornography, read about in books, done with my now-ex girlfriend, a fantastic bedroom warrior who took everything with stride. None of it translated. My body lagged, and I kept adjusting, constantly correcting, trying again and again to no avail.

               She stared at the ceiling. I took that as encouragement, my second major misinterpretation of the night.

               There was a lot of movement but not much synchronization. I concentrated too hard, which made time stretch drastically. At one point, I lost track of what I was supposed to be doing entirely and had to reorient myself.

She looked back at me once during sex. “Is that good?” I asked her.

“I guess,” she said. “You’re just… not very experienced.”

               We were there for about fifteen minutes, just screwing around. It wasn’t working. Eventually, I made a few strange, involuntary noises, and it was over. She looked back at me, not angry, just relieved.

Then I said something worse.

“Do you know where the condom wrapper is?” I asked. “I can’t have my ex find it.”

               I got on my hands and knees and started searching away. Under the couch. Around the table. Performing a kind of forensic investigation. The remains of some crime nobody wanted to visit.

Behind me, she dressed quickly, recovering whatever dignity was still available.

“Well,” she said, pulling on her jacket, “thanks for having me.”
“Wait. I want to see you again.”

“I know you do. Goodbye.”

Then door closed. A few moments later, I heard her outside on the phone through the open window. She was explaining the situation.

“My car got towed,” she said. “Yeah. No, I’m fine.”

I listened some more. I couldn’t exist anywhere near the situation I’d just created.

“My parents are coming,” she said. “I’ll go to the depot in the morning.”

               I went to the kitchen, opened the last beer, lit a cigarette, and sat at the table by the window. Across the street, a fat orange tabby tore into a bag of watered down garbage, dragging it closer with one paw. He was one of the few creatures who experienced no shame. I envied him.

               Traffic passed and the morning traffic began like nothing happened. I laughed once, watched the cat disappear down the block, and stayed in that moment for years.