You enter the studio hastily and drop your bags to the ground when your phone screen lights up with a message that reads “See you soon.” You turn on the speaker and press play on a random playlist. Anything works to avoid the quiet. As the loud music fills the room, you notice the time. Only forty-nine minutes left. You always say you will start earlier, but secretly enjoy the thrill of the last minute. And as you stare at your reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall, you sigh. Stepping closer, you inspect your pores but heroically resist the temptation to pick at them. You can’t afford to spiral now, so you keep moving.
As you rush to open the closet, your stomach flips upside down in anticipation. That old feeling of excitement, the one you keep chasing, washes over you. In an effort to put a new outfit together, your floor disappears, buried under piles of ‘not good enough.’ You want an outfit that’s sexy, but not too sexy. Something that shows your figure, but does not scream promiscuous. Something that will entice his imagination, but still look effortless. You need something a cool girl would wear. Guys always call you a cool girl, don’t they?
Pressed for time, you end up picking the old low-rise jeans you wear on all your first dates. The ones that make your legs look really good and make men stare a bit too long. Then, you put on your favourite corset. You did not escape habit this time either.
Now to the bathroom mirror. Time for makeup. You try your best to erase your insecurities or at least conceal them under a layer of foundation. And as you apply mascara on your lashes, you ponder why you haven’t met someone yet. Maybe it’s because I’m so fucked up. You grin sardonically at your reflection and conclude you will look into therapy soon. Preferably with a man.
Ten minutes left, and your bag lies empty on a pile of clothes amidst the chaos of your tiny room. You pack a small compact mirror, lip liner, lip gloss, and mints, which you will reach for at the end of the night, just before you say goodbye. You know he will try to kiss you. They always do. It seems to be an unspoken rule of first dates. You will dodge it, of course; you don’t kiss on a first date. But you still want to smell good, just in case.
Then shoes. You try on your heels first, but ultimately swap them for sneakers, in case he is shorter than you. Better to be safe than sorry.
Lastly, you reach for your stiletto-shaped perfume. One spray in your hair, one on each side of your neck, and the final two on your corset, just above your bra.
You are finally ready, so you close the front door and quietly say goodbye to your studio. You look down at your watch. Only four minutes until the bus arrives at your stop. Running down the stairs of your building, you promise yourself that next time you will leave earlier. You also know that is a lie.
Miraculously, you get there just in time. When you enter the bus, you notice the driver’s gaze lingering on your legs. It is a sign that you chose the right outfit, so you take this opportunity to skip tapping on. You don’t think he will mind—and you are right. You also don’t have to get into what that says about you.
You sit down to catch your breath. Looking at your phone, you absentmindedly open Tinder and finally answer his message with “On my way.” You close the app, but then open it again, only to find yourself swiping through faces. Jack to the left, Michael to the right.
A message from a new match interrupts you: “Wanna grab drinks tomorrow?” Satisfied, you reply, and then keep on swiping. Not because there is anything wrong with these guys, but because you still feel…restless.
