A Real Story

Three weeks after my divorce papers were signed, I downloaded a fling app on my lunch break in the parking lot of a Chipotle. I told myself the rules clearly: no feelings, no exchanging numbers with people who use the word ‘someday,’ nothing that resembled the eleven years I’d just walked out of. I matched with a woman named on her profile only as ‘K,’ who listed her interests as tequila, rock climbing, and ‘not looking for a stepdad.’ We met at a taco truck near the fairgrounds, ate standing up because there were no tables, and she made a joke about my wedding ring tan line before I’d even mentioned I was divorced. I liked that she noticed.

We saw each other four times over six weeks. Always casual, always her place, always gone by 11pm because she had an early shift at the vet clinic where she worked. It was exactly the arrangement I’d signed up for, and for a while it genuinely felt like enough — no arguments about whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher, no slow creeping resentment, just two people who liked each other’s company in small, contained doses.

Then one night she fell asleep on my arm instead of walking me to the door, and I lay there wide awake doing math about how many Tuesdays a month that would be if we actually tried this for real. I panicked and did the thing I’m not proud of — I got quieter over text, then stopped answering altogether. She sent one message a week later: ‘you could’ve just said you wanted more, or less, or whatever. the ghosting was unnecessary.’ She was right, and I never fixed it.

What I actually learned wasn’t about the app — it did exactly what it promised. It was that I’d downloaded it to avoid feeling anything, and it turned out I still very much could. Next time I open one of those apps, I’m being honest from message one about the fact that I don’t actually know what I want yet, instead of borrowing someone else’s clarity and calling it mine.