Internet Boyfriend: Part 3/3
A short story written 2024
In August—four months into internet flirting with Elliot—while sitting in an airport lounge, I took on the Herculean task of distilling a weekend trip to Maine into a five-slide Instagram story dump. I hadn’t heard from him in weeks. No texts, no DMs, no likes on stories or posts. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Unusually quiet for an internet boyfriend, really. And that (unfortunately) loomed in the back of my mind as I chose every shot.
Uploaded pictures to my story:
Image 1 - my best friend, Maya, and her new boyfriend, William, standing on the steps of the country mart
Image 2 - a plate of fresh lobster waiting to be boiled
Image 3 - a 16oz jar of local blueberry jam
Image 4 - two surfboards strapped to a Toyota Tacoma
Image 5 - a local waterfall
Image 6 - me in a bikini (butt cheek smoothed)
A well-rounded assortment of deceivingly idyllic, look-at-me images.
Three minutes after I smashed POST (x5), Elliot liked the story of blueberry jam. And, in that moment, my soul floated outside of my body. Every single cell in my body vibrated. I heard twelve angels sing in unison. I swear, that single notification with my crush’s name on it was enough to cure my depression forever; enough to light up the entire state of Nebraska at midnight; enough to cover my overpriced rent for the next year; enough to convince me that I wouldn’t shrivel up one day and die alone. Life was suddenly magnificent. Everything around me, glittery, hopeful, perfect.
I fucking loathed how much dopamine this virtual man shot into my veins with just the tap of a heart-shaped-button. That day turned into A GREAT FUCKING DAY because my day-pass to love simulation had been renewed. I was reassured that our flirtation game was still in play. Just because of one, single LIKE, I was at ease for the rest of the day. I blasted “Rollercoaster” by The Bleachers in my headphones, strutted down the jet bridge of my commercial flight like I was the goddamn star of a music video, and joyfully took my seat in economy. That nod from Elliot spelled out: I saw this, and I still like you. It meant nothing and everything. My crush was crushing on me back, and I’m not sure there is a better feeling in the world than that.
Elliot was an anomaly. It's rare to get hooked on an app match like that. Internet boyfriends exist, sure. But they don’t pop up all the time, at least not for me. Probably because I make app dating especially difficult by weeding out 98% of the guys for harmless flaws like “under 5'9"” or “works at Deloitte.” These little details could easily be forgiven if I were face-to-face with a wonderful person, but I wasn’t. I was lying on my couch, staring at a series of blurry phone photos, taken three (plus?) years ago.
A tall, beautiful, emotionally unavailable architect who travels 24/7 looks great on the internet. Much better than under-5'9-Deloitte. And that's exactly why we (the internet-daters of today) are so fucked.
Honestly, to this day, I tend to avoid or ignore most good matches. It’s all a bit terrifying, no? Because a qualified match means I have no excuse not to meet them. It means I have to blow out my hair, pick a cool-but-slightly-sexy outfit that says I showered, but also, I don’t care that much. It means rattling off the same nauseatingly repetitive bio lines. And maybe, worst of all, it means I could get hurt again (eye roll).
This is where Elliot distinguishes himself from the pack. With him, there is none of that real-life fuss. Our flirtation nests in the deeply unproductive cradle of fantasy. We are not flesh and bones to each other, but rather, notifications, screen names, and dopamine spikes. That tone was set day one when he texted me, “I’ll be back soon, let’s raincheck for then.” A cryptic but alluring promise to absolutely nothing.
“Open the door whore, we’re late.”
Grace, my sister, snaps at me from the hallway. The SMACK-SMACK of her gum slices through my tissue-paper-walls. It’s Christmas Eve and 23 degrees outside. What I really need to do this morning is pack for our flight home tonight, but no. Grace is set on trying some torture-chamber weightlifting class called SOLIDFORM, where the music is too loud, the lights are too dim, and the instructor is most definitely too young.
“When did I agree to this???” I yell from my kitchen. As someone who enjoys meditation and yoga, this is the type of workout that induces night sweats—or better yet, existential dread for 24 to 48 hours prior.
“Ugh, god. LET’S GO,” Grace replies, now standing in my doorway. Surely waking up my entire floor.
Solely to shut Grace up, I get dressed. But to be clear, I don’t believe in workout clothes. In fact, I’d rather die than wear a matching ALO workout set in public. Sweatpants and a cutoff Hanes tank top (the same one I slept in) is as good as it gets.
On the way out the door, I reach for my long, black, wool coat, which is covered in a mixture of my hair, dog hair, and sidewalk salt from last week’s snow.
Grace and I sprint down my six-floor walkup and fling our bodies down Bowery.
“YOU KNOW, THE SECOND YOU HIT THIRTY,” Grace screams over her shoulder, five paces in front of me, “YOUR MUSCLES START SHRINKING.”
I ignore her.
We pass Rivington, Delancey, Broome, Grand, and Hester, and finally take a sharp left on Canal.
“PICK IT UP. WE HAVE 4 MINUTES TO GET THERE.”
Nausea creeps up my throat as we run.
“Hey! Lowe?”
My name. Someone calls it. Not Grace, but someone else, a deeper voice, maybe behind me?
“I’M WALKING IN WITHOUT YOU,” Grace barks, propping the door to SOLIDFORM open with her foot.
At the corner of Elizabeth and Canal—a block behind Grace—I slow down and scan the intersection, still looking for that voice. Squinting. Nothing. No one. What the hell?
More nausea creeps up my throat. I swallow it.
Then, I see it. Or rather, I see him. Elliot, in the flesh.
He raises his right hand for a little wave—both silver rings perfectly in place.
Dear fucking god. He’s real.
x
