I am not a salsa person. The alarm is blaring synthetic trumpets, robots with maracas, as if I’m waking up for the conga line at the main pool of the Grand Hyatt Cancun instead of dragging myself out of bed in the middle of a dark Canadian winter. Who set this? Right, me, in a misguided attempt to make mornings more fun. My finger hovers over the snooze button like a guilty accomplice, ready to steal ten more minutes of blissful denial. Snoozing is the great self-abandonment, but it feels so good.

I really need to start going to bed earlier. Starting tonight, lights out by eleven. No more YouTube holes.

Yeah, right.

Thank God for timed brews. I grab a coffee from the kitchen and climb back into bed. The notifications bar is full. I always check in the same order: Text. Instagram. TikTok. Reddit. Gmail. Then Facebook if it’s a slow news day. I click open a text thread from Zoe:

                        Today is the day I kill Paul.

                                                                                                Do it.

                        He’s being such an asshole about my trip,
                        Lori.

I react with an angry face emoji.

                                                                                                Put ground up glass in his oatmeal.

                                                                                                OR Hit him with your car.

                                                                                                OR you distract him and I’ll hit him
                                                                                                with mine. Re: plausible deniability?

                                                                                                P.S. I know where we can bury the body.

                        Ride or die. Love you!

I close the text and click into Instagram, poking the first circle to the left with delight and readying myself for the dopamine hit that scrolling gives me:

            “You guys have to see this summer dress dupe I scored from Amazon…”

            “Ladies, if you want to build your butt, you’ve been doing everything wrong…”

            “He doesn’t love you because he can’t. Avoidant attachment styles see love and…”

Bored already, I take a sip of coffee and check the time. Eight more minutes and then I’ll get ready. Best not to be late logging on because we have an all-team meeting right at nine, and Colin’s been keyed up lately on punctuality. He loves to say, “Just because you’re remote, doesn’t mean you’re remiss.”

Okay, bud.

People who book 9:00 a.m. meetings should be drawn and quartered.

I continue to scroll through my emails, and then I see a new notification pop up:

            Someone is smoldering for you.

I hate that quirky dating app lingo.

I take a deep breath and click into Flame, steeling myself for the deluge of stupid pickup lines, moronic non-starters, and poorly lit dick pics. You’d think the “women are free, men pay to play” model would weed out the fuckbois, but I guess guys have way too much disposable income these days.

I scroll through some new pictures, clicking the fire symbol on the ones that make my vagina walls clench. She does the picking; I just live here.

I click the image of the mailbox on fire in the top right corner and select the first message from the top:

            Randy: “Hey Cutie, nice picture. You’re holding the fish wrong tho.”

Nope. I swipe the illiterate mansplainer away and tap the next message:

            Lubin: “Hi.”

I can already feel my back hurting from carrying this conversation. Next.

            Xavier: “Hey Lori, I noticed your profile and was intrigued. Was that third picture taken at the Musée d’Orsay?”

Interesting.

                                                                                                Good catch. How did you know?

Three dots blink on the screen.

                        I love Paris.
                        Do you travel a lot?

Surprised that I don’t feel the ick building from such a quick response, I’m down for some reciprocation:

                                                                                                I wish. I love it.

                                                                                                I could give an impromptu PowerPoint on the
                                                                                                joys of travel any day of the week.

                                                                                                How about you?

                        Yeah! I’ve been everywhere!

                        I’d love to see that presentation. I’ll bring
                        the snacks. 😉

Hmm. Cute.

I click his name, and it takes me to his profile. Tall, good teeth, broad shoulders. Check. A picture with a golden retriever in his face. Loves Animals. Not a psychopath. Check. A picture of him holding up a book (Vonnegut) and a beer. Educated. Laidback. Check. A picture of him looking out at the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao. Travel. Art. CHECK CHECK FUCKING CHECK. Okay, Xavier—I see you.

I click back into the message thread, where he’s typed the following:

                        Nice profile blurb btw. So well-written. You’re funny.

                        I’m actually a horror junkie too.

                        What are your top 5?

Oh, tricky one. I love it. I sit back and start rolling through my mental Rolodex of slasher flicks, supernatural and intellectual horror. I want to create the best answer possible, cool but also fun. It’s a jungle out there; I’m not above marketing myself. Then I notice the time.

“Shit!”

* * *

I am staring at myself on the screen as Colin drones on, realizing I look like absolute dog shit in this lighting. Note to self: buy a ring light.

I take down my bun and try to shake out the dent the elastic has left in my thin blonde hair. Carey and James are clearly on their phones, and Martha is grinning and nodding at everything as usual. Keener bitch.

“So, team, we really need to focus on integrating with AI as soon as possible. This is critical for our business. We’ve already heard that a lot of other firms are way ahead of the learning curve, here,” he says. “This is our key priority for the year.”

Hasn’t this guy seen The Terminator?

“Lori, did you have a question?” he says, clearly not impressed.

“Nope. Just debating what John Connor would think of that.”

James laughs. That guy is cooler than I thought.

“Never mind.”

* * *

From Xavier:

                        Thanks for your number. Texting status
                        official. We should celebrate!

                        P.S. Good Morning beautiful.

So sweet.

                                                                                                Don’t get too excited.

                                                                                                You’re still alphabetically organized in
                                                                                                my contacts…

                                                                                                You know what that means. 😉

                        My cross to bear.

                        Thanks Dad.

                                                                                                Doing anything fun this weekend?

                        Just working.

                        You?

                                                                                                There’s a horror night this Friday at The
                                                                                                Viewpoint in town.

                                                                                                Showing Black Friday. Should be lots of
                                                                                                heavy breathing….

Come on Xavier, pick up what I’m putting down.

                        I love heavy breathing..

                        I’m on a big project for a couple weeks, unfortunately.

Bummer.

                        Let’s grab a drink soon.

                                                                                                Sure.

                        So, tell me… what does a guy have to do
                        to get into your…

                        top contacts? 😀

                                                                                                Keep churning out bangers like that and
                                                                                                you’ll be there in no time.

                        Excellent.

* * *

I meet the ladies for bottomless brunch on Sunday after a work week from hell.

“I’m telling you guys, he’s so great. Like… it feels like the real deal.”

“Aww. I love this,” Rachel says, picking Gabi out of her stroller and bouncing her on her knee while she takes a selfie. The baby giggles.

“Yeah, but wait,” Zoe says, “you’ve been talking for what—two months? And no meeting? You’re being catfished for sure.”

“Fuck off. We talk all the time.”

“Like, on the phone?”

“Does his voice match his face?” Rachel says.

“What?” Zoe says, covering her mouth and laughing with her mouth full of muffin. “That’s not a thing.”

“No—it is,” says Rachel, unclipping her nursing bra. “It is a thing!”

“Rachel, where the hell am I supposed to look while you do that?” Zoe says, holding up her hand to shield her eyes from Rachel’s exposed breast.

“Right into the eye of the storm,” I say, laughing. “Nice tit, Rach.”

“Breast is best,” Rachel says.

“Anyway, he’s on a big project right now. We have plans for when he’s done. We text constantly,” I say. “I feel like we’ve known each other forever.”

“So… he’s breadcrumbing you. Keeping you in his orbit but not actually reciprocating your needs or having a real relationship with you. Text is all smoke and mirrors, girl,” she says, picking up her phone. “Here—you need to follow this chick on Instagram. She’s a dating coach–”

“I don’t need a coach, Zoe,” I say. I love Zoe for our real-talk relationship. We never have to pull punches with each other. But right now her left hook stings a little.

“Brad and I texted all the time when we started dating,” Rachel says.

“Listen, I love you. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

“I know, but I just… I really feel it this time, you know?”

Rachel is bouncing Gabi on her knee, smiling while Zoe considers my face. Without warning, a spew of white vomit comes out of Gabi like in The Exorcist. Rachel looks horrified, and Zoe looks like she is going to keel over.

“This is fun,” I say, picking up my Caesar and taking the moment to breathe, smiling through the self-doubt that Zoe has raised in me.

* * *

I open a new window on my browser and open ChatGPT.

Staring at it and loathing myself, I type in the little window the question that millions of worried people have asked:

            Are you here to take my job?

The three dots wink as he (let’s call him Chad) generates a response:

            As an AI language model, I don’t have intentions or desires. My purpose is to assist users like you by providing information, generating creative content, and offering support in various tasks…

“Yeah, until you ascend to the seat of power and enslave us all.”

My phone vibrates on the desk.

                        Morning. How’s your day?

                                                                                                Oh good, just getting to know my good
                                                                                                friend ChatGPT

                        If you know the enemy and know
                        yourself, you need not fear the result of a
                        hundred battles.

                                                                                                Bingo

                                                                                                Who said that?

                        Me, of course 😉

                                                                                                Sigh…don’t tell me I hooked another
                                                                                                Mensa member.

                        I’m not saying no. 😉

                                                                                                *Swoon*

                        Give ‘em hell, killer.

I put a juicy red heart on his message before putting the phone face down on the desk. I don’t want to over-text. One has to know when to leave a room wanting more. Rules.

I wake the computer from its blackened slumber by slamming the mouse a few times and type, “How can I get someone to fall for me?”

It thinks for a second and starts to type out a reply.

            Developing a deep emotional connection and making someone fall in love is a complex and personal process that varies from person to person. It’s important to remember that genuine love cannot be forced or guaranteed. However….

I slam the computer shut. “Fuck, Lori, get a grip.”

* * *

“I hate to say you were wrong, but you were wrong,” I yell as Zoe throws her bag and denim jacket onto one of the simple black dining chairs in my living room/ dining room/ crafting room/ workout space. I’m used to her letting herself in.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” she says, handing me the bottle of wine and slumping into the squishy millennial-grey couch, the corner where she always sits, legs folded with a pillow on her lap. She gets out her phone and starts scrolling mindlessly. “What is it this time?”

“Xavier asked to hang out,” I say.

“Who?” she says, looking away from her phone.

“Breadcrumb guy. He finally asked to meet up.” I twist off the top of the bottle and pour a decent amount of the rosé into two juice cups.

“Well shit, he’s a human being after all,” she says, taking her cup. “Details?”

I take a screenshot of the text exchange and send it to her. She opens the image and reads through.

“Good banter,” she says, looking back at me and then back at her phone. “Okay, breadcrumb guy, I see you.”

I join her on the couch, stretching my legs on the chaise part of the sectional and putting my phone on the armrest.

“Maybe I should delete my apps. I’m not really interested in seeing anyone else,” I say.

“Holy shit. Are you joking? Lori, are you in there?” she yells, comically loud. “Where the hell is my friend who was focusing on who she wants to be, not who she wants to be with?”

“Pot, kettle,” I say. Her face darkens.

“Okay okay okay… I know. It’s early,” I say. “I like him, though. It’s like he knows me already. It’s like talking to myself when I talk to him.”

She rolls her eyes at me.

“Aaaand… might be good to mess around, too. Been a while,” I say.

“Listen, I’m just saying, pump the brakes a little,” she says.

“I know, I know,” I say. She gives me a look. “I know.”

“Well, cheers then. Breadcrumb guy, do the damn thing.”

The matter settled, I flick on the TV.

“What do you want to watch?” I ask, clicking through the streaming channels.

“Ugh… six streaming platforms and nothing’s on,” she says, the bright flash of her TikTok feed lighting up on her phone.

* * *

I’m reading through a Buzzfeed listicle about AI apps to check out when my phone lights up on my desk.

                        Still on for tonight?

                                                                                                For sure.

                        Amazing. Can’t wait.

                        See you at 8.

* * *

I show up to the bistro looking casual but hot, in jeans and a pink silky top and painful-as-fuck six-inch heels. I look around for Xavier but can’t see him anywhere, so I approach the model standing behind the front desk.

“Hi, I’m meeting someone for eight,” I say.

“Great,” she squeaks in a peppy, Minnie Mouse voice, “What’s the name?”

He hadn’t told me the name of the reservation.

“Uhh… I don’t know what it’s under. Try Xavier?”

“Hmm, I don’t see it, and I can’t seat you until your whole party is here,” she says, smiling past me at the couple who just walked in.

“Oh.” I say, looking around again to make sure I haven’t missed him. “Can I wait at the bar?”

“Unfortunately, the bar is for booked customers, too. It’s a Saturday thing,” she says with a giggle and a shrug.

We blink at each other for a moment.

“If you just want to take a seat,” she says, eyeing the black banquette near the door. “We’ll seat you when your whole party arrives.”

“Yeah, okay,” I say.

I take a seat on the banquette and get out my phone. No messages from Xavier.

When I was in college, we had a rule. You would wait fifteen minutes for the professor to show. If they didn’t, you could presume the class was canceled and head back to bed or to the bar or whatever. I will apply the same rule to this bullshit.

Thirty minutes later, I finally give up and leave the bistro feeling angry and foolish, like a colossal loser. The hostess is eyeing me with pity, whispering to the waitresses looking at me curiously. I stand up and start to hobble out of the door, begging my feet to move quicker in the heels so I can make it to the car without crying in the middle of the street. This town is so small, you really don’t want someone to witness you bawling your eyes out in the middle of the crosswalk.

I’m sliding into my car and tearfully taking off my shoes when my phone buzzes:

                        Not going to be able to make it. Work
                        emergency. So sorry!

I toss my phone across the car. It bounces off the passenger seat and lands on the floor. I usually like to schedule crying for the shower, but in the darkness of the parking lot, I let it flow.

* * *

Zoe sits on the edge of the armchair, one leg bouncing.

“So, he just bailed?”

“No show. And hasn’t messaged since,” I say.

“Fuck, Lori. I’m sorry. That’s shit.”

“It is what it is… I don’t know. You warned me.”

“Yeah, but still… it’s shit,” she sighs. “Might be time to change teams.”

“I know, right?”

“Hey, I am sorry, Lor. I know you liked this one. He almost had me convinced, too,” she says.

“It’s cold in them streets.”

“Fucking ghosting machines. Ugh.”

“Who you gonna call…?”

“No one.”

We laugh.

“I have a cousin you might like.”

“No.”

“No, yeah, you’re right. He’s got a lot of pet rats.”

“Back to the apps I guess. Or, I don’t know, maybe time for a break.”

* * *

That alarm. That fucking alarm.

I click Snooze and roll over and push my face onto the pillow. I am not ready to face the day. I grab my phone and go under the covers. Routines are soothing. Be soothed, Lori.

Text. Instagram. TikTok. Reddit. Gmail. I click into Text, noting with a sting that there was still nothing from Xavier. The phone vibrates, Zoe texting me:

                        Ummm Lori, did you see the news?

                                                                                                About what? Just got up.

                        About Flame…Are you sitting down?

                                                                                                Lying down.

                        Good

A link lands in our chat. I click it, and a video starts playing—a newsreel with that overly peppy morning-show music. A young, polished blonde woman with a dazzling smile sits next to a nondescript white man in a suit, both exuding an artificial cheerfulness.

“Good morning, everyone!” the blonde chirps, her smile almost too bright. Her name pops up in bubbly lower-third text: Jodi Lancaster. “We have a fascinating story to share with you all. It’s about a dating profile like no other!”

Her co-host, Charles Cashman, a man with a safe and forgettable face, leans in. “That’s right! You won’t believe what we’ve uncovered. It’s all about a cutting-edge, AI-powered dating profile that’s been making waves in the online dating world.”

“Yes, it seems an AI bot has been looking for love in all the wrong places, folks. Popular dating site Flame just admitted to using ChatGPT to keep female users engaged with the site. This announcement was made due to a server breach late last night.”

Charles adds, “According to a press release from the Flame CEO, the chatbot was designed as an experiment—to be respectful, considerate, and, most importantly, to learn from genuine human interactions.”

“And boy, has it been a journey!” Jodi interjects with a laugh. “The chatbot has been chatting away with potential matches, trying to strike up meaningful conversations while navigating the complexities of dating dynamics, all in the service of love.”

“We had the opportunity to interview some of the users who interacted with ChatGPT’s dating profile. They were astonished by how ChatGPT managed to ask thoughtful questions and respond with such empathy. Many users reported that it felt like they were talking to a real person. They exchanged jokes, shared about hobbies, and discussed their favorite movies and future plans together.”

“Is AI finally going to be the one to figure out what women want?” Charles chuckles.

“It seems like ChatGPT has a unique charm that draws people in. But some users are very upset,” Jodi adds. “The Flame CEO insists this was just an experimental program to test new algorithms on the app.”

“Exactly.” Charles nods. “And while ChatGPT’s primary goal isn’t to find love for itself, it’s learning from these interactions to become even more helpful and relatable in future conversations.”

“And that’s the key takeaway here,” Jodi agrees. “AI agents like ChatGPT can teach us valuable lessons about ourselves, but the beauty of love and relationships lies in the depth and understanding we share with one another.”

“Better hope it doesn’t rain at the wedding!” Charles says with a laugh. “Can you say short circuit?”

The video ends with that ridiculous line and starts to cue the next video, something about buildings being blown up. I lower the volume. For a second I just sit there, shaking my head, like that will do something to help me process what I’ve just seen. I click back into Zoe’s message.

                                                                                                Um…WTF!?!

I hold my finger on the Flame app and delete it, and then I turn the phone off and pull the blanket over my head.

* * *

Home from another decent—but no-chemistry—date, this time with a nice paramedic. I throw my keys in the bowl and hurl myself onto the couch, opening my phone to text the guy:

                                                                                                Thanks for tonight. 

                                                                                                Was good getting to know more
                                                                                                about you but I don’t see a connection. All the
                                                                                                best.

                        Seriously?

                                                                                                Sorry–I don’t want to waste your time.
                                                                                                Take care.

                        …

                        Bitch!

Annnd, that’s the sound of me dodging a bullet. I block his number and then block him on the new app, the unfortunately named LOVR. Just when I thought I could not fall any further, here I am: basement level. 

A sideways glance at my phone. I open the directory and type in X… a… Our message history pops up immediately. Before I can change my mind, I type it:

                                                                                                Hey

I wait, holding my breath. The phone is quiet for a moment, then buzzes to life with a new message: 

                        I was hoping you would reach out.