Love Is an Algorithm

Chapter 1

When Eve was twenty-two, she moved to Colorado. It was Fletcher’s idea.

Fletcher is a full-time consultant and a part-time ultramarathoner, and when he and Eve started sleeping together in their senior year of college, all their friends were like, “Fucking finally!”

Now Eve is twenty-six. Location: laminate bar/table, plastic IKEA stool. View out the window: pitch black. Breakfast: semifrozen toaster waffle; peanut butter. Company: Fletcher on the stool next to her.

It makes for an awkward eating arrangement because they have to turn if they want to speak. Fortunately, Fletcher does not like to speak before his races. Is this fortunate? She can’t stop hearing her friends saying, Fucking finally.

“D’you think there’s a technical term for the pockets in a waffle?” Eve asks.

Fletcher shifts; the stool creaks.

“I mean, pockets, maybe. Divots? Belly buttons?”

“You could look it up,” Fletcher says.

Eve types. “Hi, Mr. AI. Waffle pocket name, please. Mmm, okay. Mr. AI suggests wells. Do we like wells?”

Fletcher places a hand on Eve’s shoulder, which requires him to set down his waffle and shift his stool. His hand is gentle. His voice is calm. “Babe,” he says, “I don’t mean to shut you down, but if we could just do silence. That would be awesome.”

Eve finishes her waffle and puts the dishes in the sink.

She gets in the driver’s seat of their Subaru Forester, nicknamed Gus, so Fletcher can ride shotgun and retie his shoelaces.

This is the seventh weekend this year they have allocated to an ultramarathon.

Fletcher consistently places in the teens.

It is currently 4:49 a.m., and they will likely get back around midnight.

For the duration of the three-hour car ride, there will be no music, and neither of them will say a word.