by Tina Bhaga

We’re snowboarding and jumping off airplanes, kissing babies, and kitted up real nice at friends’ weddings. The curated montage of awesome that is you. And me. And everyone else. Go on. List the countries you’ve visited, the cities you’ve lived, the last meal you ‘grammed. Are you looking for someone to witness all that? Or hold your hand when you die? Something in between, yes? Friends with benefits. You want a companion. You want a fan. A thirsty acolyte to build an alter for you – drink your sweat, tears, cum.

In the spaces between pictures our lives are quiet and dull. And lonely. Not an urgent sadness. Just low grade walking pneumonia on antibiotics. We stumble in the dark. Some with fingers outstretched feel around for a nose ring, arm tatt, dog tag. Others hold their hands tight against their chests, mummy-like, protective and unseeking. They like to hear the swish of bodies moving but wriggle away from the touchers. There are no edges to this place, nowhere to lean against a wall and rest or even clamp onto a surface with starfish suckers.

On the occasion we bump into something appealing, we explore blindly the texture of that hair clump, the folds and creases of a skin patch. Smell it perhaps. Lick, bite. Er, that may have been someone’s mole, or an old bandaid. Or an ex. Hard to tell since your ex tastes like an old bandaid. And shows up once in awhile on that one app that you now avoid. Shudder. At least they updated their pictures and removed the one where they’re wearing the wedding ring you bought and engraved.

A hand may shoot out and grab a piece of your flesh. Pinch and poke and prod. Until it decides to push you away. You’ve been found wanting. You do the same to someone else. We’re desensitized. We ghost each other, a mutual and silent parting of ways. The wavelengths of your desire are out of sync with mine. When mine wanes, yours shoots up. We’re a hopeless mismatch of sine and cosine graphs. Once in awhile you get a knobby elbow in your ribs, a blow that temporarily knocks the trig out of you.

There’s that one time you match with someone that ends up being a fake. How do you find out? The admins send you a note that the profile you liked is being reviewed for fraud and identity verification. Does this mean you have exceptional taste or impossible standards? Or that your soulmate is a bot.

You were a cheater, a heart breaker, a fool and a cuckhold. Were you consciously uncoupled? How dignified. Doesn’t matter to me though. We don’t need to get into it. Neither of us wants to hold each other’s emotional baggage, or hair, while we throw up our past. I’m interested in who you’ve remade yourself. This one’s a marble veined bust, cold and impenetrable. That one’s hiding behind self-deprecating wit. Will you take off your mask for me? And what must I give to be gifted your truth.

The catcalls ping forth from my phone instead of the street. After feeling invisible for so long, it’s energizing. And a bit overwhelming. The buffet of hot dads, delicious daughters, smokin brothers, and MILFs is dizzying. I’m loose and on the prowl.

My ego is sufficiently stroked by your swipes and pick up lines. But words are cheap no? Especially the ones we use to flirt and play. Now that’s a muscle that atrophied during the coupled-up years. It shouldn’t have, but it did. To be fair, it takes two. You can’t seduce yourself. Or if you can, it’s not as fun. Thank goodness for muscle memory. Seem to remember the steps to this jig.

I have a simple test. Drop an uncool preference, “Listening to Miley while doing a senior paced jog round the neighborhood.” Then see how you react. Do you shame me, tease me, agree with me, offer up your own secret in good faith? A conversation can take days or seconds. We crave the stretch of it, the heart pumping anticipation of what will follow the dot dot dot. Tempt me, make me laugh, be my distraction. Except when the elastic band snaps back and stings your cheek. Shake it off.

The disembodied dance continues to the tune of algorithms clicking like a digital metronome. There’s a comfort to them calculating, then conjuring your future mistake of a partner, like the bubbies and aunties used to do. Because we don’t know what we want now. And we certainly don’t know what we want 10 years from now. Probably the exact opposite. So we’re absolved of the responsibility!

We wander restless and unfocused. Unable to see beyond a narrow field of vision or quench the thirst for another. Of course there are those that find solace. Their fingers and legs interlock, lace together. They light up like electric eels momentarily before vanishing. Have they gone to another plane? Are their spirits at peace? Are they fucking on a beach in Bali? Or planting spring bulbs and pushing a lawnmower along a no name suburban corner lot. Will they be back in this ether again if things don’t work out? Perhaps. But for now they’ve escaped the apps and sparked our desire for the same. See you IRL.
 

About the Author
Tina Bhaga is a Chicago-based desi writer, born and raised in south Texas. She received her MA in Asian American Studies at UCLA. Her deep love of history, fantasy and science fiction shapes her work. A data wrangler, map maker and public servant by day, Tina has also podcasted and made short documentaries. When off duty, she co-hosts wicked dance parties with her son, advocates for social justice issues and hunts for street food, fashion and art.