How everything changes in an instant.
Until recently I was part of an ordinary family with twenty years of service behind it, and then suddenly everything had begun to shift beneath my feet. We'd never been the perfect family, but then, wasn't that how every couple we knew lived — somewhere between quiet calm and squabbles over whose turn it was to do the dishes? Ever since, a few years back, my husband had bought our family home with money given to him by his father, and said:
"I'll put it in Dad's name, just in case… you know, in case something happens between us."
From that moment on I had been waiting for it — the moment when emotions spilled past control, nerves stretched to the breaking point, conversations with my husband climbed into a higher octave, and the thing I'd been dreading finally became real. We sat in silence, as we did every evening, eyes fixed on the ever-present television, understanding or hearing nothing of the anxiety pouring out of the news broadcasts.
"Look, call the lawyer and let's split up peacefully, like civilized people," he tossed out, lying on the couch, tossing it off almost in passing, sure I either wouldn't understand what he meant or just wouldn't take it seriously.
"Like civilized people" echoed hollow in my head. So apparently, being "civilized" about it was all that mattered — and it was right then, for the first time, that I decided to do something for myself, something all my own — even if it felt like stepping off a cliff.
By the very next Saturday morning I was stacking overstuffed suitcases and bags at the threshold of our family home's front door, as if someone had fired a starting shot from an air pistol to launch my new life. I felt relief at everything I was leaving behind, but also a heart clenched with fear at what lay ahead — something I'd have to invent and design from scratch after two decades away from it.
I was also leaving behind the dearest thing I had — our shared eighteen-year-old son, who no longer needed raising but still needed a mother. He stood in the hallway, watching in horror as I feverishly gathered my things.
"Don't go, Mom! What am I going to do without you?"
My heart was bleeding, but it didn't stop me from rushing toward my new future.
A few weeks later, I was putting up with my mother's reproachful looks, having moved back in with her — much to my own displeasure. I wrestled my fears more or less into submission, rearranged the old creaking furniture in my new-old home, picked up a few modern appliances, and turned the one spare room into a guest room for the days my son would come to visit. When this whole difficult, and at times euphoric, process of a new beginning was finally over, I found myself giving my long-neglected emotional life some serious thought. Nearly fifty, long hair and naturally curly, skin still soft with a moderate scattering of wrinkles, the gym three times a week, yoga once a week, a couple of suitcases stuffed with high-end clothes and shoes.
"Damn it, I've still got it!" I told myself, standing in front of the slightly crooked full-length mirror in the hallway of the old apartment.
As a bonus to all of that, one could add a solid career with a stable income.
I met up with a few girlfriends I'd never had time for before. Now I could give them all my free time, and listen — with mild irritation — to advice like "You're young and pretty, you'll find someone" or "At least you get a break from cleaning and cooking," while one of my friends, more experienced in solitude, simply exclaimed:
"Let me sign you up for Minder. The whole world's on there! You'll find someone in no time."
So I did. I set the search filters for men between forty-five and fifty-five, uploaded a few of my best photos, and waited with curiosity. What was I looking for? Nothing complicated — a pleasant-looking man, and plenty of time that pleasant look could and would want to spend on me.
The following weeks dissolved into chatting, blocking, unmatching, and a creeping despair that the odds of meeting a normal-looking man under 120 kilos, whose crazed stare wouldn't haunt my dreams, were sliding toward zero. Finally, one day, Javier appeared on my profile — roughly my age, a Spaniard with a business, currently based in my city. He sent me a string of very sweet messages — "What a gorgeous, natural woman!" and "You radiate beauty and good spirits" — before quickly arriving at the coveted "I'd love to meet you, if possible." I hesitated for a while, but soon decided to take the risk and give love a chance. We arranged to meet at a place downtown on Friday evening after work. That Friday at noon I messaged to check: "Is our meeting still on for tonight?" Javier's reply: "You know, something's come up tonight. But why don't you come over to my place instead. I've got a sauna and a jacuzzi, we'll have a great time. Don't worry, no sex involved."
Going to the apartment of a man I hadn't even laid eyes on yet struck me as reckless, and the man proposing it — shallow and brazen, with nothing but a one-night stand on his mind. Thoroughly disappointed, I deleted him from the app and patiently braced myself for the next round of scanning.
In the days that followed I discovered that Minder was full of chaff — married men, young guys hunting for a sympathetic sugar mommy, and outright psychopaths, all of whom I weeded out daily. Like a hamster wheel, different men cycled in and out of my profile one after another together with stupid questions, stupid answers, matches and unmatches.
My patience was finally rewarded the day a like came in from Emilio — fifty years old, an Oxford graduate, according to his profile. One of his photos showed an athletically built man in a wetsuit, poised to dive in any second. I found him attractive and well put together. We agreed there was no need to text much — better to just meet in person and talk.
As arranged, one evening I stood right on time in front of the central city theater, waiting, wobbling on the ten-centimeter heels of my most elegant shoes. As I scanned the crowd impatiently for fifteen minutes, he suddenly popped up right under my nose, making me nearly jump. He was considerably shorter than me and carrying at least twenty extra kilos compared to the trim diver from the photo. It seemed I'd been set up with the elderly father of the man I'd been picturing this whole time. It felt rude to just say I wasn't interested and leave on the spot, so I accepted his offer of a drink at a nearby place.
He summoned the waitress and pronounced, with all the authority of a man who owns the room, "Order whatever you'd like, I'll just have the one beer, since I'm driving."
"A small Ballantine's on the rocks," I said — though I rarely drank, the disappointment of the situation called for something to blur the view. I noticed him wince slightly at my order.
Over the next hour, the aged diver from the photo buried me under a landslide of information about his many degrees and titles. Then he moved on to mentally tallying up the vast fortune he supposedly possessed, then to listing his properties, and finally, at length and with real venom, launched into an extended tirade about his ex-wife, with whom he had a child.
"I gave her an apartment to raise him in. I've given her everything, made sure she's set. But if she starts dragging some man around, I'll take it all back — the apartment, the kid, and leave her out on the street."
I didn't feel like offering an opinion on the subject, and my new acquaintance didn't leave much room for another voice in his monologue anyway, so I waved the waitress over and ordered a second of the same. This time I was absolutely certain he frowned, and clearly my order did not sit well with him.
"Sorry, someone's calling, it's urgent," he said suddenly, looking at his phone. "I need to step outside to talk. My nephew needs me."
"Of course, no problem," I answered, relieved. Now I could finish my second whiskey in peace, without having to sit through more of the monologues that had bored me to tears.
About ten minutes later he came back and announced the matter was urgent and he'd have to leave — he'd take care of the bar tab. I said a polite goodbye and, through an already hazy gaze, watched him hand something to the waitress.
I drained my glass with the quiet satisfaction of a woman rid of an unwelcome guest, and set off homeward at an unhurried pace. Out on the street, a voice called after me.
"Excuse me, but the bill hasn't been paid."
I turned and saw the waitress hurrying to catch up with me, out of breath.
"What do you mean? The man I was with paid it. I saw him pay," I answered, baffled.
"He only paid for his beer," the waitress said, showing me the receipt. "Though he didn't pay for the two whiskeys you drank."
The following days kept dissolving into lonely nights, and Minder had nothing new to offer, until one evening I noticed an interesting profile that had matched with me. His name was Pedro — probably a pseudonym. His photos showed a man of fifty-five in excellent shape, with a pleasant face. Too old for me, I told myself, but then again, a little wisdom and experience never hurt anyone, and old-school men still hold on to some tradition of respecting women. I decided to give him a chance.
The first thing he wrote to me sounded so romantic: "Your eyes tell me everything. I'm so glad I've finally found you here." It sounded sweet and unlike anything I'd read up to that point. "Oh, and what exactly did they tell you?" I wrote back right away. "That there's an incredible pull between us," he wrote. We exchanged a few messages and he almost immediately suggested talking on the phone. He called that very evening. On the other end of the line I heard a tinny male voice, going on at length about things that didn't interest me much. We swapped the usual personal details — where each was from, what we did for work. He kept repeating how he'd grown up in the city center and knew it inside and out. He was so good at slotting himself into whatever information I shared, adding even more knowledge, surprising coincidences, and shared ground, that before long I stopped listening to the small, quiet voice in my stomach, and endorphins started dancing in my head, blurring every sensible thought.
"What's your name?" I asked eventually, having nearly forgotten it. "I assume Pedro isn't your real one."
"That's right. They call me Chico," the tinny voice rang out.
We met for the first time at a restaurant downtown, one late afternoon. When I arrived, he was already there — he'd even reserved a table and was waiting for me. See, I told myself, old-school manners really do show, no question about it. He was looking around as if unsure this was really me, so I walked over and introduced myself.
"Yes, I know it's you. I'm just — sorry — you're so beautiful, and it feels like I've known you forever. I forgot to even shake your hand," Chico stammered, flustered.
We sat down at the table, and for the first few minutes his gaze stayed fixed on me while I tried to fill the silence with a flood of words on random topics. At some point the conversation started flowing smoothly, with a fresh round of flattery and pleasant coincidences drawn from the facts of my life — profession, interests, life events. I read some kind of sign from above into all of it, so that when, in passing, he mentioned that he was actually married, I somehow didn't take it seriously. The evening ended with him walking me to my car, my shoulders wrapped in his jacket. Before I got in, he pulled me gently toward him and held me in a tender embrace. Oh, heavens, I was flying. I drove home in love, his embrace lodged somewhere in my neurons, leaving no room to think of anything else.
Over the next few days we texted constantly, getting to know each other even better. We arranged to meet again the following Friday night, at a club with live music. I was trembling with anticipation, waiting for it at last — and so it happened. As the band played old rock songs, we sang and danced, loosened up by the wine. At some point it got very late, the live music stopped, the place quieted down, and we could finally hear each other. He ordered new drinks and pulled me aside to talk.
"You know, I want to ask you something," he began, hesitant, though the alcohol had clearly loosened his tongue.
I nodded with a smile, half expecting him to pull two tickets to Paris out of his sleeve, and he continued:
"My wife and I are looking for a third partner. I was thinking, maybe…" — here he gave a small cough, his speech turning slurred and hard to follow.
I had no idea what exactly he was asking, since it was three in the morning and exhaustion was setting in, and — damn it — surely he couldn't be asking that, could he?
"A partner? Like... for bridge?" I asked, silently praying that it really was that, and not the other, considerably more alarming, thing.
"No, no, not for bridge, of course! A partner, you know — for a little something extra. You know what I mean, right? My wife and I have been together thirty-four years now, we're looking for a third. I showed her your photos and she liked you a lot," Chico smiled, pleased with himself — a man who'd stuck the landing.
Slowly I came back to my senses after hearing that, pushing past the endorphins, the alcohol, the fog, and everything else standing between me and clear, logical thought.
"There is absolutely no way that's happening," I stated flatly.
"But whyyy…?" he whined in a thin little voice.
I practically bolted out of the club, leaving him standing there, baffled and more than a little annoyed. The moment I got home, I deleted my profile from the app. If I'd learned one thing, that a person has to listen closely to their own gut, because frauds with hollow lines, false intentions, and an emotionally primitive but technologically well-equipped way of life are lurking behind every other profile.
