First Dates

When she told a story, this gal I knew, she waved her hands limply in the air, swatting invisible gnats from her ears and cheeks and long eyelashes. This was just a brief tragedy she told in passing, of how her possibility doesn’t exist anymore. He was a potential first date; she was swatting flies because she didn’t mind that he didn’t find her worth the time. She, one night, had logged on to reply only to find his account had been removed.

I laughed through lips forced into smiling, because so did she. I laughed this way because I couldn’t find humor in the tragedy she told, and neither, I reckon, could she.

The conclusion she gave, after swatting and smiling, was simple and insincere, at best. He must have found true love, she told herself and us. She never spoke of okcupid again, but still swatted when she told stories of first dates.

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