Expiration Date
11:47 PM / Monday
Bzzt.
Your phone vibrates against the bathroom tile. Steam from the shower you're not taking fogs the mirror. You're sitting on the toilet lid, fully clothed, swiping. The porcelain is cold through your jeans. Good. You need to feel something.
Left. Left. Left. Right... no, left. Your thumb has developed a callus. A dating stigmata.
The algorithm knows you better than your therapist. It knows you lie about your age (thirty-nine, not thirty-five). It knows you only swipe right on women who look vaguely like your ex-wife if you squint. It knows you're three whiskeys deep on a Monday.
Profile #247 tonight: Tiffany, 36. "Not here for games. My therapist says I'm ready."
Her therapist is wrong.
You match. The phone plays a slot machine sound. Dopamine floods your synaptic gaps like sewage backing up. You're Pavlov's dog, except the bell is loneliness and the food is disappointment.
Everyone on this app expired in 2019. Some cosmic event, a rapture for the emotionally available. What's left: human jerky. Preserved by bitterness, dried out by divorce lawyers, seasoned with Lexapro.
Your list (version 4.7, last updated three hours ago):
- Not currently married (you'd think this goes without saying)
- Fewer than three cats (two = quirky, three = situation)
- No MLM involvement (essential oils are not a personality)
- Can't use "manifest" as a verb
- Doesn't photograph food
- No visible cold sores in profile pics
- Laughs at actual humor, not just nervously
- Knows the difference between your and you're
- No one who says "I'm fluent in sarcasm"
- Maximum two therapists (one regular, one emergency)
Sarah messages first: "ur cute. drinks?"
Your. Not you're.
Delete. Block. The callus on your thumb throbs.
8:23 PM / Wednesday
Her name is either Sara or Sarah. She's changed it three times mid-conversation. No-H Sara when she's trying to seem casual. Sarah-with-an-H when she's making a point about her ex-husband. The ex-husbands. Plural. Like attorneys general or surgeons general or all the other things that sound wrong when properly grammaticalized.
The bar is called Vestige. Everything here is reclaimed wood and exposed brick. Twenty-dollar cocktails served in mason jars. The bartender has a handlebar mustache and depression.
Sara(h) orders tequila. Añejo. She pronounces it "an-joe" and the bartender's eye twitches.
"So," she says, ice cracking like vertebrae under her grip, "Bruce. That's husband two. Bruce had this boat. Called it Second Chances." She laughs. Her laugh sounds like a garbage disposal trying to digest a spoon. "Turned out the boat was purchased with embezzled funds. From a children's charity. Make-A-Wish, specifically."
You're doing math. Two husbands by thirty-six. Divide by emotional damage. Carry the baggage. The answer is: run.
But she's wearing this perfume, Tom Ford something, and underneath it, that smell... the scent of someone who knows they're about to sleep alone again. It's weirdly intoxicating. Like huffing paint thinner. Bad for you, but the high...
"What about you?" She's already on tequila three. Her words are starting to collide. "Married? Divorced? Gay but trying?"
"Divorced. Just the once."
"Amateur." She signals for another round. The bartender looks at you with pity. Or maybe recognition. He's seen this movie before.
Her phone buzzes. She checks it while you're mid-sentence about your job. Another match. You can see his profile reflected in her pupils. Taller than you. Better jaw. Probably doesn't rent.
"Sorry, what were you saying about... insurance?"
"Advertising."
"Right." She's not listening. She's calculating. Running your stats against New Match. You're losing.
The ring shadow on her finger catches the bar light. It's not fading, it's deepening. Like her finger is dying from the memory of marriage. Necrosis of commitment.
Her updated list (revealed through tequila confessions):
- Over 6'2" (she's 5'4" but "likes to feel safe")
- No roommates including mothers
- Owns things: car, home, emotional stability
- Has been to therapy but isn't "weird about it"
- No men who still play video games
- No men who say "I don't really watch TV"
- No men who own birds
- No divorcés who still talk to their ex
- No divorcés who don't talk to their ex (red flag either way)
- Must want kids but not have them
- Must love dogs but not too much
- No actors, writers, musicians, artists, or "entrepreneurs"
- No one still "finding themselves"
"You know what we are?" She's slurring now. The tequila has dissolved her Instagram filter. "We're the bananas turning brown in the supermarket. The ones they discount. Sixty percent off. Buy now or we become compost."
She leans in. Her breath is agave and desperation and that Thai food she definitely had for lunch. "Want to get out of here?"
You do. But not with her. You want to get out of here and go home and delete all the apps and maybe join a monastery or become one of those people who does CrossFit instead of dating.
"I have an early meeting."
She knows you're lying. You know she knows. The bartender knows. The exposed brick knows.
"Right." She's already re-opening the app before you've gotten your coat.
The Uber driver's listening to Christian rock. Somehow, this is the least depressing part of your night.
10:15 PM / Friday
Different bar. Same exposed brick. They must buy it in bulk.
Her name is Madison but she goes by Maddie but actually prefers Mads. She's twenty-eight but tells everyone thirty-two because "maturity is sexy." She works in "fashion" which means she has an Etsy store. Her dress costs more than your monthly income. Her father bought it.
She's beautiful in that way that makes you nervous. Like handling nitroglycerin. One wrong move and everything explodes.
"My ex died," she says, before you've even ordered.
Just like that. Drops it like a mic. The couple at the next table stops mid-conversation.
"Hot air balloon accident. Well, not exactly an accident. There was a chainsaw involved." She pauses. Studies your face. "I'm kidding. He's alive. He's actually married. To my sister. I was testing if you were listening."
You order whiskey. Double. The bartender, different mustache, same depression, pours heavy. Brotherhood of the damaged.
Maddie orders a milkshake. Strawberry. In a bar. The bartender stares. She stares back. The bartender blinks first, disappears into the kitchen.
"I don't drink," she explains, pulling pills from her purse. Arranges them on the bar like tarot cards. "This one's for anxiety. This one's for the anxiety caused by the first one. This little blue friend helps me sleep. The white ones are for my ADHD. Or my OCPD. I can never remember which."
The milkshake arrives. It's in a martini glass. There's a paper umbrella. The bartender has given up.
She drinks it with violence. Aggressive slurping. Whipped cream on her upper lip that she doesn't wipe away. It sits there. Taunting gravity.
"You're on my list," she says.
"What list?"
"The list. Tuesday's list. Guys who think they're creative but work in advertising. Guys who order whiskey neat to seem sophisticated. Guys who are one bad date away from downloading Hinge Premium." She pulls out her phone. There's actually a list.
Tuesday's List (Guys to Fuck But Not Date):
- Recently divorced (maximum two years)
- Still wearing the wedding ring indent
- Orders whiskey but doesn't enjoy it
- Checks phone for exits during conversation
- Has "creative" in LinkedIn bio
- Owns one suit (the divorce court suit)
- Still has joint Netflix account
- Lives in an apartment that echoes
- Has that look (you know the look)
- Thinks he's different from the other guys
"You're hitting nine out of ten," she says. "The only miss is the Netflix thing. You seem like a Disney+ guy. For the Marvel shows. To feel young."
She's right about the Disney+.
"What's Wednesday's list?"
"Guys to date but not fuck." She scrolls. "You're not on that one."
The whipped cream is still there. Defying gravity. Mocking you.
Her phone rings. The ringtone is the sound of cash registers. She answers without apology.
"Mercury! Yes, mommy's coming home. Is Mr. Whiskers being good?"
Mercury is her dog. Mr. Whiskers is her mother's boyfriend who dog-sits. He's forty-three. Her mother is sixty-one. Maddie is explaining this while fake-orgasming into the phone for the dog's benefit.
The couple at the next table asks for their check.
"Want to meet him?" She's showing you videos. Mercury is a Pomeranian with anxiety. He's wearing a sweater that says "Emotional Support Human." He's on the same medication as her.
You realize: you're not even expired goods. You're the dented can in the discount bin. The one everyone picks up, examines, puts back.
"I should go," you and your whiskey-flavored mouth say.
"Obviously." She's already on her phone. Swiping. "Oh, I matched with your friend."
She shows you. It's your therapist.
2:47 AM / Saturday
You're home. Drunk. Your apartment does echo.
The apps are all open. Tinder, Bumble, Hinge. The unholy trinity. You're swiping on all three simultaneously. It's like playing three slot machines at once. Triple the rejection, triple the fun.
Your ex-wife texts: "Are you up?"
Delete.
Your mother texts: "Helen's daughter is single again!"
Delete.
Your therapist texts: "We need to discuss boundaries."
You match with someone. Instantly. At 2:47 AM. That's never good.
Her profile says: "Just looking for someone real."
Her photos are all group shots. You can't tell which one she is. Russian roulette.
She messages: "You up?"
You type: "Yes."
Delete.
Type: "Yeah, can't sleep."
Delete.
Type: "Unfortunately."
Send.
She sends a location. It's a Denny's.
You go.
3:23 AM / Saturday (Still)
The Denny's lighting gives everyone jaundice. Or maybe everyone here actually has jaundice. Including you.
She's exactly who you thought she'd be from the group photos. The one you hoped she wasn't.
"I'm Jessica," she says. "But everyone calls me Jess. Except my mom. She calls me Disappointment."
She laughs. It sounds like a fork in a garbage disposal. Must be a trend.
She orders everything. Grand Slam. Moons Over My Hammy. Pancakes. An entire pie. The waitress, her name tag says "Hope" ironically, doesn't judge. Hope has seen things.
"I eat when I'm nervous," Jess explains, drowning pancakes in syrup. "Also when I'm happy. And sad. And bored. Basically, I eat."
She's wearing a wedding ring.
"Oh, this?" She notices you noticing. "We're separated. Technically. He lives in the basement. I live upstairs. We share the kitchen. It's complicated."
Everything's complicated after thirty. Before thirty, you break up. After thirty, it's complicated.
Her list (written on a napkin in ketchup):
- Breathing
- Present
- Not my husband
You qualify.
"Want to know a secret?" She leans in. Syrup on her chin. "None of us know what we're doing. We're all just pretending. Even the married ones. Especially the married ones."
The fluorescent lights flicker. Someone in the corner booth is crying into their hash browns.
This is it. Rock bottom. Denny's at 3 AM with someone's wife.
But then.
Ding.
The door chimes. Another lost soul enters. It's Madison. With her Pomeranian. At Denny's. At 3:35 AM.
She sees you. Waves. Walks over.
"Tuesday!" That's you, apparently. "This must be Wednesday."
She's right. Jess is exactly a Wednesday kind of problem.
Madison sits down. Uninvited. Orders a milkshake. Of course Denny's has milkshakes at 3 AM. Denny's has everything at 3 AM. Denny's is purgatory with pancakes.
"So," Madison says to Jess, "you're married."
It's not a question.
"Separated."
"Sure." Madison turns to you. "You know what your problem is?"
You have so many problems. Which one?
"You still think you're shopping. But you're not. You're at the clearance rack. End of season. Final sale. No returns." She sips her milkshake. "We all are."
Jess is nodding. Syrup dripping. Hope the waitress is nodding too.
"But here's the thing," Madison continues. Mercury is now on the table, eating bacon. "Clearance can be good. You find weird stuff. Interesting stuff. Stuff that didn't sell because it was too interesting for regular retail."
She's drunk. Not on alcohol. On whatever those white pills were.
"Or," Jess counters, mouth full of pancake, "it didn't sell because it's broken."
They look at you. Waiting.
The fluorescent lights buzz. Someone's phone plays that slot machine sound. Everyone checks their phones. Everyone has a match. Everyone's someone else's 3 AM mistake.
11:47 PM / Sunday
Bzzt.
Full circle. You're back on the toilet. Different bathroom. Your mother's house. Sunday dinner turned into an intervention. About your "situation."
Delete all apps.
Download all apps.
Delete. Download. Delete. Download.
Your thumb is raw. The callus has become a blister. A dating stigmata, bleeding now.
New match. Profile says: "Recently expired but still good."
At least she's honest.
You check her photos. It's your ex-wife.
She messages: "I know this is weird but..."
You type: "Yeah."
She types: "Want to get coffee?"
You look at yourself in your mother's bathroom mirror. Thirty-nine years old. Sitting on a toilet. Swiping. Bleeding.
"Sure."
Send.
The algorithm laughs. Somewhere, in a server farm, a machine learning model just figured out the joke. You're not expired goods. You're not clearance items. You're returns. Brought back. Tried to exchange for something better. Store credit only.
And the store?
The store only sells more of the same.
Your ex-wife sends a location.
It's Denny's.
Of course it is.
It's always fucking Denny's.
This short story is part of my compilation of short stories, Dream City and Other Stories.
Want more? Dive into Dream City and Other Stories—a collection that lives in the shadows, that keeps you guessing, keeps you wanting just one more page.
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