Out There

by Kate Folk

I’d never liked the idea of finding a romantic partner on an app, the same way you’d order pizza or an Uber. Such a method seemed to reduce love to another transaction.

Such uncertainty was the nature of existence. We brought things into our lives, and time passed. Things exited our lives. That was about all that ever happened.

I would have what other people had after all, in a surprising twist of fate.

Judgment glimmered through me, a disdain for hippies, people who moved through the world with unwarranted confidence—a prejudice I hadn’t known I harbored.

But our first minor conflict had broken a dam of judgment within me.

The task of accounting for my life to a stranger filled me with an acute self-loathing. Maybe this was why I’d avoided dating for so long.

I had spent three months with Sam—not long, but enough that the prospect of starting over seemed exhausting. I imagined breaking up with him, razing what we had just started to build. I would do the same things with a different man, all the milestones, yet again, with someone new. I would peel myself open and unpack my past for his perusal. We would make juice together. I would clean each piece of the juicer carefully, dry it with a dish towel, replace it in the drawer. There would be a period of mutual excitement at the beginning, and then he would tire of me, or I of him. It would last however long it lasted, and then it would end.

You’re so relieved to escape a relationship more or less intact, and then you get lonely and jump right back in for another round with someone new. You think, if only you could find a partner whose desire manifests in a relatively noninvasive way. But of course it’s a foolish hope. The more someone loves you, the more he’ll want to meddle with the most vital parts of you, and vice versa. The only way to not hurt someone is not to love him enough, to remain unmoved by the thought of his organs pulsing beneath a thin layer of skin.

Reese felt like an expensive horse or a sports car kept under drop cloths and buffed weekly with chamois.

Reese watched the amber sticks of the dashboard clock rearrange themselves into new minutes. She replayed in her mind the moment her sledge had contacted the drywall, piercing its membrane, causing damage that any casual observer could see.

I dread returning to my copywriting job at a slick midtown ad agency, where I used my English literature degree to hawk creams, gels, and cosmetic procedures to insecure women. I dread resuming my rituals of maintenance and control—the keto dieting and master cleanses, the Bikram yoga and SoulCycle, the monthly clockwork of organic facials and gel manicures and Brazilian waxes.

The thing I most feared has already happened, and I am now able to spectate on the particulars of my own rejection from a slight remove. I almost convince myself that it’s a relief, to no longer have something to lose.