You swipe through a hundred men.
Eager. Desperate. Not you. Them.
It’s a turn off, but you do it anyways. You write the same thing over and over. A quick bite? You wait, teeth piercing through the skin of your lips. Many don’t answer. You intimidate. You’ve been told it more than once. But then a daring fellow responds. You set the time, the date, the place. They don’t need to do anything, but arrive. Some do, some don’t.
The initial meeting gives a slight stir in you, but they never look as handsome as their photos and their eyes don’t look at you like they used to.
It always ends the same way with you leaving in the still night. Full, but not feeling much of anything.
Then, another night, another swipe. It’s too easy. No thrill, no chase. No mystery in the demise.
Some nights you do it the old way. But it’s harder, less men looking at you. Too busy on their own devices, swiping, swiping, swiping. Always looking to devour more. Never appreciating what is in the flesh, right here and right now.
It used to go like this:
You go to a bar. You order some drink of no interest to you. Luckily, you always find something off the menu that will quell your real thirst.
Scanning the room, quick glances for all. Fluttering in the pit of your stomach, as you make lingering eye contact. His date returns to him and you avert your attention. It wasn’t meant to be.
When you think there isn’t anyone you want to taste, you see him. Stuttering, nervous energy. He was looking for something tonight, too. Just when he thinks that it is never coming, you catch him. He finds you intriguing. A few thoughtless laughs, an innuendo. You suppose it was a little too easy back then, too.
Soon you are out of there. A stinking bar alley is suitable enough for your intentions. Sinking into each other, you can feel him in the deepest of your veins. It’s fleeting. Day is quickly coming. You’ll never see him again.
Now, it’s like this. And you have to make do. Swipe left, swipe right. Your hand cramps and you are so empty.
But you match and you meet and you repeat. This time you order a blood red wine, no food. He doesn’t care either way. He’s easy, invites you back to his place. You don’t trust that. He has a roommate or a mother, so you decide to take a risk. You take him back to your place and this gives a new opportunity to excite you. For any kind of feeling, this is worth it, you tell yourself.
As you clean up the mess he leaves, you feel a little sentimental and you hate it. You never wanted to be like that. Right when you think you’ll never do it again, something happens.
A connection.
This one seems a little different. He’s invested. He sends more than one word or some cloyingly annoying cartoon face. You let your guard down. You wait for his messages. He wants to take his time with you and the chase exhilarates.
Your mind races as you build up the blocks of your past. You realize the thing that has been missing. The cycle needs to be broken. There could be two of you. Two would be better to fill endless nights with. You didn’t think you were capable of change or growth at your age.
You wait. You don’t want to spoil this. You keep up the Mr. One Nights, but you get them over with quickly, racing back to your potential Mr. Forever. Eternity has a new meaning.
But then he stops. A day goes by with no new message. And then another and another. You read over your mistakes. You feel like an idiot, a child. All these years later and you are still getting it wrong.
You meet up with a One Night Man and you take it all out on him. The whole night goes bad and you are such a mess that you fly home and vow to never leave again.
A ping erupts into the night. A beautiful sound from an electronic torture device. The fresh blood in your body warms. It is him.
He’s been so busy. He’s so sorry. He wants to meet. Can you forgive him? You don’t want to waste another second, as you already feel time slipping away. You fix your hair, change your clothes, wipe the dirt from your body.
And you go and you meet and it’s all on his terms now and you don’t even care. He’s just as he seems. He’s perfect. He’s it. The only one possible. You wish you could read minds, but it doesn’t work like that. You put away your old tricks and magic happens regardless. Two starved souls connected through digital space with the potential for something real.
It’s getting late. You grab his hand and lead him to special spot. A new place, untarnished, green and lush. A perfect place with vines digging deep into the earth. He’s trembling and you know what he wants. He has to want it as much as you do. You sink your teeth into his neck. You drink, so deeply and sweetly. He’s getting weak, but he holds on to you, so deeply and sweetly.
You let go only for a moment. But the moment is too long and before you can show him your true intention, before you can split your own chest open for him, show him why this is right, he grabs something, anything sharp, and he thrusts it into you.
Your heart turns to dust as the cruel sun rises, revealing your truth in the blinding light of day. You were never meant to see the sun. Eternity only exists in the darkness.
Melissa McCann is a writer based in Detroit, MI. She has earned an MFA in creative writing from Lindenwood University. She currently works in education. She has also worked as a staff reader for E&GJ Little Press and judge for NYC Midnight writing competitions. Melissa’s short fiction and screenplays have placed in a number of writing contests, including the Historic Irvington Halloween Writing Competition, Made in Michigan Festival, and The Write Room Screenplay Competition. Her work has appeared in Gathering Storm Magazine , The Gateway Review, and Fearsome Critters: A Millennial Arts Journal. She has an unhealthy addiction to cats and ghosts.