A Real Story

I downloaded Pure about three weeks after my ex moved his stuff out. I wasn’t looking for anything with a name attached to it, just some proof I could still make a plan on a Friday night without crying in the car first. The app moved fast, which I liked. A guy named on his profile as “Rob, 34, here for now not forever” messaged me within an hour of me setting up my profile, and we had drinks scheduled for two nights later at a wine bar near my apartment in Sacramento. He was funny in that self-deprecating way that either means he’s actually confident or he’s rehearsed the bit fifty times. Either way, I laughed enough that going back to his place afterward felt like the obvious next scene.

His apartment was clean in the specific way that made me suspicious someone had cleaned it that afternoon. I noticed the crayon drawing on the fridge while he was getting glasses down from a cabinet, three stick figures holding hands under a lopsided sun, one small, two tall, with “DADDY” written in blocky kid letters above the tallest one. I didn’t say anything right away. I just told him I’d left my phone charger in my car and I needed to grab it, and I drove home and didn’t answer his texts for two days.

When I finally did answer, I just asked him straight out if he had a kid, and he said yes, and that he and the mom were “basically separated,” the same sentence I imagine gets recycled on every app from here to Ohio. I don’t actually know if he was lying about being separated or just lying to himself. What I do know is that a hookup app strips away almost every context clue you’d normally get from a friend introduction or a workplace, so you end up reading a stranger’s kitchen like it’s a witness statement. I’m not against these apps, I still use one occasionally, but now I look at the fridge before I look at the guy.