Pam #2
Do you include that you’re widowed in your profile? What kind of vibe does that give off? What if they think I’m some sort of black widow, meeting men on dating apps and murdering them once my name was listed as the beneficiary on their insurance policy?
Gods, I’d been listening to way too many true crime podcasts.
I tapped a manicured nail against the glass of my phone, pondering what else to say about myself. This was always so difficult.
Ultimately, I decided to go with:
Widowed. Knitter. Avid reader of romance books. Film buff. Former wedding cake baker and pastry shop owner. Mom to two amazing adult children (and one hairless cat). Looking for companionship with the potential for something more.
Sweet and concise.
Just like me.
Remi ambled back in from the kitchen and jumped onto my lap as I set the age range for acceptable matches.
“What do you think, Rem? Should I open it up to younger men? Is sixty too old? I mean forty is the new thirty, so fifty must be the new forty, making sixty the new fifty. I’m fifty-four, so it’s only a six-year age difference.”
The tiny wrinkled gremlin stared up at me, his wide eyes unblinking.
“All right, forty-five to sixty it is.”
Was I really one of those people who stayed at home and asked their cat rhetorical questions?
The answer was yes, yes I was.
Once I’d set the parameters for appropriate matches, I watched eagerly as a loading bar flashed across the screen. This was the part I was most excited about. I’d heard about the swiping and I was anxious to experience it for myself.
The first profile suggested for me was a human man in his late forties.
He was cute. His black hair was in a tight crew cut that fit his chiseled features, and the beginnings of crow’s-feet formed in the corners of his deep brown eyes when he smiled.
According to his bio, he was a mechanical engineer whose hobbies included reading and watching movies—but he was in an open relationship.
I admired folks who could do open relationships, but it wasn’t my style. Even though I was looking for something casual, I wasn’t too keen on sharing a partner. Apparently, all those years of monogamy had really done a number on me.
Photo after photo passed on the screen as I swiped left on pretty much every profile.
A guy in his fifties who worked as a Rod Stewart impersonator.
A gargoyle who owned a cranberry bog. A sixty-year-old naga who performed with a traveling Shakespeare group.
They were certainly interesting individuals, but nothing about them really drew me in.
Until a candid shot of a curly-haired minotaur caught my attention.
His hair was a light cream color, full of cowlicks, which swirled in all different directions.
A set of ridged, deep brown horns curled over the top of his head, running across his fluffy eyebrows and connecting above his snout.
His dusty pink nose was adorned with a shiny gold ring, the type you’d commonly see on a bull.
A buffalo plaid shirt stretched across his barrel chest, with a tuft of hair sprinkled with grays sticking out from beneath the unbuttoned collar.
Gods, he was handsome.
Another photo showed him standing next to an elevation marker on a rocky mountainside. A backpack was slung over his broad shoulders, and a wide grin was plastered to his face as he gave the camera an enthusiastic thumbs-up. It appeared he was quite the outdoorsman.
The third photo showed him sipping from a tiny espresso cup with his pinky out in a display of civility.
So he was a caffeine guy.
Now that I could get behind.
According to his profile, his name was Alistair.
Alistair.
How distinguished.
He was a fifty-five-year-old divorcé who worked in the agricultural industry. A suspicious maple-like leaf graced that portion of his profile…Did that mean he worked in the cannabis industry?
Although I’d embraced the whole grunge aesthetic in the ’90s, I’d never smoked pot before…How would that even work?
I mean, not everyone who worked in that industry smoked pot, right? There was no way the investors with their tailored suits were toking doobies in their high-rises.
I was being ridiculous. Weed was legal. I was making a stink about nothing.
His location was listed as…right here in Briar Glenn?
He must have moved here recently. I would have noticed him around town; I was sure of it.
I scrolled to his “About Me.”
I live in Colorado, but I’m visiting to help care for my daughter. I have a degree in agriculture and work in the cannabis industry. I enjoy the great outdoors, coffee, and good food with even better company. I’m looking for casual, no strings attached fun.
Well, it appeared I should edit my profile. His was much more professional.
My finger hovered over his photo.
He was visiting from another state, but I wasn’t looking for anything serious. Maybe I was getting ahead of myself…
“Aw, what the hell,” I said to Remi, and swiped right.
Now to wait and see if he’d respond.