4 The weirdest woman on Tinder
4
The weirdest woman on Tinder
Tristan
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised. I wasn’t expecting to be flirting on Tinder and then run into the woman in question at a work meeting. But the thing is maybe I should have started off with the detail that I never imagined I’d be resorting to Tinder in the first place. It’s not like I’ve never needed to. I’ve had my moments just like everyone else, but I’m really not into it. I don’t know. All I know is that after talking shit about these apps, I found myself creating a profile without telling anyone. That’s the thing about moving: you start doubting your ability to meet new people outside work, or you feel kind of lazy about the ritual of going into a bar, exchanging glances, going over, striking up a conversation…
Laura isn’t the first woman I’ve talked to or the first I made plans to meet up with. Last week, I had a glass of wine with a charming girl who I had a pleasant fuck with and agreed to contact when one of us wanted to do it again. I’m not looking for a relationship, and I’m up-front about it; I’m not trying to play anyone. But it’s not like I walk around saying, listen, sex only, because that’s not what I want. I want something warm, a nice time, stimulating conversation, and if it ends in sex, even better. I don’t want to Netflix and chill. I can do that on my own. Laura seemed fun, and I was thinking about meeting up with her today or tomorrow. But Laura’s real name is Miranda, and she’s sitting here in front of me, looking at me like I just said I was a Scientologist. Or at least how I would look at someone if they said that to me.
Manuel is what my parents were going to name me, but their romantic streak won out, so I’m Tristan. Tristan incites too many questions and dominates the conversation. I get bored of having to explain that yes, it’s because of the Arthurian legend of Tristan and Isolde. That no, it’s not a family name even though it’s so weird. But in my defense, I will say that the rest of the information I gave Laura was real, even though I’ve also been pretty careful not to spill my whole life story. I don’t like saying I’m a lawyer, because I don’t think it fits my real personality. I don’t like admitting I’m so new in town, because it makes me feel like I’m at a disadvantage. I don’t like admitting that I’ve had kind of a lot of practice in relationships with the opposite sex because I tend to lose interest pretty quickly. That’s just being an asshole, and I’d hate to dig too deep and find out I actually am one. My sister says I’m not, I just haven’t found the right girl, but she’s the kind of sister who no one will ever be good enough for.
Miranda doesn’t seem to be following the meeting very closely. She’s kind of spacey or distracted. In three dimensions, her face is a little rounder than in her photos on the app, and maybe I imagined her with bigger boobs, but the truth is she’s prettier. She would’ve caught my eye in a bar. Miranda is weird; she can’t hide it, but she’s not trying to either. And I’m way more into that than stuff like an oval face or hair or body type. I don’t have a predefined type. I like whatever I see and happen to like. And I’m attracted to her. Besides, there’s something strange in the air, like the way she looks is just the first layer of a cake I’m going to end up eating with my hands.
The meeting is showing signs of wrapping up. We have all the information we need, and it’s already being forwarded to us for archiving and analysis. It’s going to be child’s play. Soon, I’ll have the text drafted that will dissuade the “cover girl” from following through with this.
“Some people will do anything to get attention…” I sigh.
Miranda shrinks a little in her seat when I look at her. Maybe she’s one of those people who will do anything to get attention? Or the opposite? I think it’s probably the opposite. Restrained in public, explosive in bed, I would bet my whole hand.
There’s something about her that seems so familiar…
The whole team, made up of almost all women, is saying goodbye with polite smiles and chatting about what they have to do next.
“I have to go do returns,” one says.
“I have to compare prices,” another reports.
“I have to go over all the material we’re going to syndicate.”
“I have to call the agency.”
And I feel super lost, because I have no idea what any of it actually means.
The partner tells me he’s going to grab a coffee with Marisol, the editor in chief, who he seems to be old chums with, and I tell him that I’m going straight back to the office so I can get everything ready as soon as possible, but he tells me to relax.
“Tristan, go get a coffee. It’s a nice day. Enjoy Madrid a little. It won’t bite.”
I’ve been a little tense since I got here. I guess I feel like I have a lot to prove. The kid from the suburbs never forgets where he comes from, and…it’s exhausting. But he’s right. A coffee wouldn’t hurt.
I catch up with Miranda when she’s almost at the door. She hustled out of there, and I feel bad because…I don’t know why. Maybe because none of this seemed that awkward to me, although I had been hyperaware since the moment I saw her that she likes having her hair pulled when she gives blow jobs. And the idea of her hair wrapped around my fist got me bad. And bad is a euphemism for horny.
“Hey…” I stop her. “Miranda…or should I call you Laura?”
“Laura’s my twin. You’ll see. We’re like two peas in a pod. You must be getting us mixed up. Don’t worry about it. It happens all the time.”
She says it without even turning to look at me. When she does, she has a horrified expression on her face, but she tries to cover it up with a polite smile.
“Do I look way uglier than my photos?” I ask her jokingly.
I know for a fact that they’re not good photos and I’m the opposite of a catfish, but she doesn’t answer.
“What? Don’t look at me like that. We all have our games.”
Miranda sucks her teeth, and a sigh sneaks out. She’s much more nervous than I was expecting.
“It’s not that. It’s not that at all,” she answers.
“So?”
“I’m having a bad day. A terrible one.”
“Okay…”
“I’m going to the doctor right now.”
“To the doctor?” I raise an eyebrow. “You’re not feeling well?”
“I feel awful,” she admits.
“Listen…this isn’t because of me, right?”
She looks at me so closely for a few seconds that I feel weird. Uncomfortable…but not exactly. It’s a look of recognition. It’s the look you give your ex when you run into them after a lot of years, and because of how much time has passed, you can suddenly recognize the boy you fell in love with at least for a little while. I smile. I don’t know why, but I smile. She does too.
“You’re looking at me funny.”
“I’m looking at you like always,” she says.
Like always, she says.
“You’re pretty weird,” I tease.
“And you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
“Tell me more? Let me buy you a coffee. A quick coffee.”
She seems to waver.
“I’m really going to the doctor.”
“But is it serious?”
“It could be.” She nods with a severe expression. “Maybe I’m dying.”
That makes me let out a guffaw, even though it shouldn’t. She smiles a little too.
“One coffee,” I insist.
“A headache,” she says, clenching a cup of green tea.
Is she nuts? Why am I so intrigued?
“Well, that doesn’t seem fatal.”
“This morning, I got up, and I didn’t know what year it was. Super disoriented.”
I blink. Jesus.
“Does that happen to you often?” I ask carefully.
“What? Of course not! That’s why I’m freaked out. What if a tumor is pressing against some part of my brain that…”
“Stop, stop.” I laugh. “Fake Laura…it’s not a tumor.”
“How do you know? When you become a lawyer, do you get some superpower that lets you perform MRIs with your eyes too?”
“Yes,” I answer securely. “And also the ability to guess what you want in a bar. It never fails.”
She looks at me almost tenderly before she sucks her teeth.
“Don’t push it,” she whispers.
“Push what?”
“I don’t know.” She clutches her head, and with her fingers in her perfect updo, I can see how real her anxiety is.
“Hey…” I reach out and touch her forearm. “I know I don’t know you at all, and who am I to say… Well, I mean, you can tell me to eff off, but it’s not that serious.”
She looks up, curious, and waits for me to go on.
“I really don’t know what’s bothering you, but if, for some reason, it’s something like you feel ridiculous because of how we met…the first time”—I smile—“or because of the information we’ve shared with each other, forget it, okay?”
She nods.
“Life is too short to want to be like everyone else, right?” I add.
She studies me with those thick, long eyelashes with just enough mascara. With her slightly smudged red lipstick. Her clean, snowy cheeks with a tint of color. Yes, she’s looking at me and actually studying me with something I can’t identify. Maybe the situation, her anxiety, the possibilities that are unfolding in front of us?
“Listen, Tristan…I’m going to ask you a really weird question, okay?”
“It’s not like anything so far has been very normal, but okay.”
“Imagine if one day, you found yourself in a situation, and you know how it’s gonna end.”
“I know or I imagine?”
“You know. With devastating certainty.”
“Okay. And I’m guessing it ends badly.”
“Yes,” she agrees very confidently. “But you can avoid it.”
“How?”
“You can avoid it by turning your back on it. Choosing another path.”
“I think I understand.”
“Or you can try to avoid the ending by throwing yourself in headfirst and changing your methods.”
“Okay. But I don’t have any guarantee that it will end well.”
“You’re getting into the case, huh?” she teases.
“I like these kinds of games.” I wrinkle my nose a little as I lean my arms on the table, which I do to get closer to her. And smell her.
She’s wearing a kind of powdery perfume. Sweet. Expensive.
“What would you do?” she insists.
“I’m not really sure how my answer matters at all, but here goes: I would weigh the pros and cons of this terrible ending you mentioned. If it means a temporary pain, I would risk it again. But if it means a lifelong scar, the kind where you learn things that don’t make you better, I would pass.”
She sits up slowly, looking at me intensely.
“You’re handsome,” she blurts out.
“Thanks. You’re not bad yourself. And you smell good.”
“You do too. How long have you been wearing that cologne?”
“I don’t know. Five or six years.”
“It’s intense.” She raises her eyebrows. “It’s the kind that takes us girls some getting used to.”
“Yours too, now that you mention it.”
I smile at her a little insecurely. I don’t feel in control of the situation. I’m nervous. I don’t like it. I do like her, but I don’t know if it’s enough to keep the upper hand. Men lose all their bravado when a woman we don’t know challenges us and we know she’s in control.
She smiles sadly and puts a hand on mine.
“It’s been a pleasure, Tristan.”
“Is that a goodbye?”
“I know how this ends.”
I take a second to react. She’s so sure when she says it. She’s not talking about a wound; she’s not talking about some trauma. She really believes what she’s saying. The warmth of her hand on mine comforts me in a way I can’t explain. A kind of tingle. Something, I don’t know where. Miranda makes me tingle in some part of my brain where I can’t even scratch.
“Seriously?” I ask her.
She pulls her hand away. The magic shatters. The moment.
I hesitate. I’m disconcerted. I see her get up and hang her bag on her shoulder.
“No,” I moan, trying to sound sweet, even though I’m not exactly known as a ray of sunshine. “Don’t leave me hanging. What would happen if you didn’t leave here today?”
“A glass of wine. Since you just got to Madrid, you’d ask someone at the office where you should take me, and they’d recommend a fancy but terrible place, full of tech bros strung out on coke who gross me out. We would laugh a lot, that’s true. We’d have sex at my house, sex that’s surprisingly good between two people who are as different as us. We would say goodbye assuming we were never going to see each other again, but you’d text me the next day. And the next.”
“That doesn’t sound much like my normal behavior.”
“Tristan…you’re going to be a good lawyer, but maybe you should reconsider the possibility that you’re getting into a profession you’re not in love with.”
“I’m not the type who falls in love.”
“Yet.”
A few strands of hair curl around her ears, escaping her hairstyle and making her look more natural. I don’t know why I have such a strong urge to stroke them and wrap them around my fingers. Miranda, who are you?
“Tea’s on you, okay? You don’t know this yet, but you owe me one.”
I watch her head to the door unwaveringly, not turning to look at me, completely convinced that what she says is going to happen, will happen. And I’m sitting there watching her leave, not saying a word.
Miranda, who are you?
I have no doubt about it. She’s officially the weirdest woman on Tinder.