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Expiration Date

Expiration Date

Monday. It starts with a swipe. Maybe a tap. You don’t even see their faces anymore. Just thumb exercises. Swipe left, swipe right. Match. Unmatch. Everyone's already expired. Spoiled milk in the fridge. Sour, and yet you keep drinking.

You’re thirty. Maybe thirty-five. Scratch that. You’re thirty-nine. Your friends call it “the invisible decade.” Everyone you meet has a history. A storage locker full of emotional junk—failed marriages, kids they visit on weekends, therapy appointments, and at least one bad tattoo.

And they all come with lists.

Her list:

  1. "Not a murderer." (Obvious, but always a concern.)
  2. "Not a vegan." (I don’t need more guilt with my cheeseburgers.)
  3. "Not shorter than me in heels." (Tall girls unite.)
  4. "Not divorced twice." (Once is understandable. Twice, you’re a pattern.)
  5. "No more than one kid." (Preferably none, but I’m being realistic.)

His list:

  1. "No crazy ex-boyfriends." (She’s hot, but I don’t need a guy slashing my tires.)
  2. "Doesn’t mention horoscopes." (If Mercury’s in retrograde, I’m out.)
  3. "Can cook." (Because Postmates is getting expensive.)
  4. "No cats." (I’m allergic. Also, they're assholes.)
  5. "Not still obsessed with her twenties." (We get it. You were hot. Move on.)

Wednesday. You match with someone. Thirty-six, no kids. Has a dog, not a cat. A husky. Something Nordic and fierce. You meet at a bar. She orders something with tequila. Her laugh is loud. It punches you in the gut. She tells you about her ex-husband. No, ex-husbands. You’re mentally crossing out number four on your list, but tequila makes you forgiving.

“You know,” she says, “by the time we hit thirty, we’re all recycled garbage.”

And just like that, the air shifts. Her tequila lime scent becomes something sour, like sweat trapped in a stranger’s coat. You start noticing the ring mark on her finger, faint but there, like the shadow of something that’s supposed to be gone. The way she laughs too easily. The way she swipes through her phone, even when you’re sitting across from her.

You don’t sleep with her. You want to. Hell, she practically invites herself over, but instead, you call an Uber and watch her figure dissolve into the flickering neon bar sign. Another expiration date.

Friday. New match. Different bar. You’ve refined your list now. You’re getting smarter about these things.

New list:

  1. "Not an oversharer."
  2. "No ring shadow."
  3. "No weird name for her dog."
  4. "Can’t say ‘yoga is my life.’"
  5. "Must know how to parallel park."

She shows up with a smile like broken glass. Sharp. Dangerous. Promises pain. And you're just numb enough to go for it. Her first story is about how her last boyfriend died in a freak accident—something about a hot air balloon and a chainsaw, but you’ve already tuned her out because she’s broken rule number one. Oversharing. But then she does something unexpected.

She orders a milkshake.

Suddenly, your brain sparks alive. Milkshake. A milkshake at a bar. Not a vodka soda, not tequila. A thick, sugary, childhood-in-a-glass milkshake. The twist hits you before she says anything else. Before you notice the way she leans forward, way too close, too fast. You realize you’re the anomaly here.

You’re on her list.

  1. "No men who think they’re still twenty." (You’re pushing forty, admit it.)
  2. "No men who don’t drink alcohol." (You ordered water. Mistake.)
  3. "No men who hesitate when I ask if they want to go home with me."
  4. "No men who still believe in love." (Oh. That’s the one.)
  5. "Must love dogs."

Her dog’s name? Mercury.

Suddenly, you understand how this works. It’s not about ticking boxes. Not about finding someone who fits your list.

You’re all expired goods. Swapped and sold on some invisible shelf until someone’s desperate enough to grab you. Maybe it’s after midnight and the store’s about to close, or maybe you’re the last carton in the back, already a day past your expiration date. But you get picked.

And then the twist:

You never even noticed you were expired.

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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📚 Paperback: Amazon

📕 Hardcover: Amazon