Love, Hate and Other Filters

by Samira Ahmed

We settle into our seats. I notice he’s cleaned the interior for the occasion. “One more thing. Close your eyes, please?” I comply, and Phil slips a soft cloth over my tightened lids and ties it behind my head, taking care not to tangle my hair. This is not what I was expecting. “Hey, what—” I tug at the blindfold. “No. Don’t. I want it to be a surprise till we get there.” “Fine.” I squirm in my seat. “As long as we’re not going to a bondage club. This is not my dominatrix outfit.” Phil laughs. “I hope I get to see it one day.” Then he leans in and kisses my awaiting lips.

Some love stories are tragedies—epics, spanning years, and built on dramatic irony, wars, Russian winters, and hours of film. Others are romantic comedies, a meet-cute ruined by mishaps and bad timing, finally leading to a kiss atop a tall building—the metropolis glimmering in the background, moon rising, love song playing over the credits.