His online profile was promising: good hair, straight teeth, college degree. And he was nice-looking too, in his photo anyway, standing on a clifftop with the sun rising over his welldefined, muscular shoulder. He was attractive enough, the kind of understated allure that was safe for someone like me. I swiped right, thinking maybe he’d be the cliched Mr. Right after too many disappointing ones.
A couple of days later, we met for drinks at the historic Peabody on Union Avenue. Maybe that was my first mistake. Meeting a guy in a hotel bar probably sent the wrong message. Or at least that’s what my mother would say. She always had a lot to say, especially recently.
“You can’t keep wasting your time with these kinds of men, Monique,” she’d say.
“And what kind is that?”
“You know, those free-spirited artist types. They don’t want commitment.”
Maybe I didn’t either. What did she know? I was in my midthirties and hadn’t lived at home under her watchful, super-religious eye for nearly twenty years. What did she know about what I needed?
He strolled into the bar in faded jeans, the kind that cost hundreds of dollars and years to break in, and a fitted navy t-shirt that pulled over his smallish paunch, which hadn’t been visible in his profile pic. That was fine. I had one too that I’d tucked into Spanx and covered with a loose, floral top.
“Monique?”
I nodded. “Hey, Matt.” At first, when I saw his profile, I recoiled at his name despite the promising list under it. Monique and Matt. Even for me, it was too saccharin, but then I’d reconsidered. Maybe we’d have that spark of a promise.
“Sorry I’m late,” he offered. “I was finishing up a photoshoot.”
I pictured my mother pursing her tight Watermelon-Pink lips. Yep, he was one of those non-committal types. We shared a bottle of house chardonnay, its hint of oaky wood teasing my tongue as I answered his questions: How long have you worked at the college? A PhD? How long did that take? What did you study? Langston Hughes, eh? Where’s the most interesting place you traveled? Through the wine haze, I told him of all the places I’d been. South Africa, Hungary, Thailand, Morocco. Why not? It wasn’t like I’d ever see him again. He’d never know that the most exotic land I’d ever visited was Chicago for a third cousin’s wedding. We’d probably go back to his place or mine, pretending to be what the other needed, and then he’d leave or I would. We would dance around it for a week or two, answering non-committal texts: Drinks soon. Maybe this weekend? And then I’d move on to the next promising profile. And so would he.
My mother was right.
I hated when she was right.
At home later that night, I slugged down a Xanax with the last of my elderberry juice, which, from the label, promised to boost my immune health, lessen
