Fiction

Woman Searches for Love in All the Wrong Plants

Photo courtesy of the author.

I thumb through a dating app late one night, letting the answers to prompts swirl around in my head. The editorial patterns reach absurd predictability:

Oddly attracted to facial scars, big noses, nerdy girls with glasses, girls in STEM, crazy chicks.

Be down to earth, be outgoing, be kind.

I want someone who can handle my bullshit, call me on my bullshit, deal with my bullshit.

I know the best spot in towns for brews, tacos, tacos and guac, tacos and margaritas.

I am overly competitive about everything.

Find me at the party near the dog.

I swipe until the muscle that bridges my thumb and index finger gets sore. Finally, the app’s algorithm steps in to offer guidance with a lavender banner running across the top of the screen to tell me with whom I am most likely to achieve compatibility. It has run its fine-tooth comb over my activity: the vigorous, discerning swiping where my thumb always gets caught in that chip on my screen and gives me a cut. It has looked at my filters: liberal and atheist, but doesn’t want kids—please, no kids.

The first round of suggestions are mainly vegans. People who are vegans to lower their carbon footprint; vegans who…