When Donny moved out, I decided not to tell people that I had cheated. It was more believable that way, I thought.
I shuddered as friends told me I deserved better than “that loser,” but I didn’t protest when my two girlfriends wanted to make me an online dating profile. I liked them pampering me even if at times I felt like their sad project. They came over and grabbed my computer immediately. They made me sound fascinating online while moving men collected all of the furniture Donny had paid for. I told my friends not to mention to suitors that I didn’t have a bed.
My friends told me to envision my perfect guy so “the universe” could “send him” to me. I envisioned a guy who slouched, who had beautifully messy hair, who actually read the newspaper, who cared about strangers, who didn’t bore me, who made life feel spontaneous, who would know when I was unhappy, who would help me be an interesting person and live with me in an apartment lined with books and luscious green plants. That’s all I wanted. That’s not what I got.
Instead, my friends accidentally selected ‘Interested in Women’. I didn’t notice this error until it was too late. I was very popular. A smiley doctor with great bangs, a cool architect with professional photos and a busty brunette messaged me on the first day of my being interested in women. I couldn’t say no. I didn’t know what I wanted, but they knew what they wanted, and they wanted me, so maybe I was supposed to be with them?
I booked my first date right away and then two dates in a row after that. I wanted to be busier than I ever had. Donny cut me off his cell phone plan and it was the first time in years that I didn’t have internet on my phone. I printed out the profiles of these women along with directions on how to get to the restaurants and tips for first date conversations. Each woman had her own manila folder.
I studied their faces and re-read our flirty exchanges. I was good at being a fake lesbian. I believed the sweet words that I said to them. Maybe I really was sweet. Maybe after tonight I’d start feeling like I could have a nice life.
I put the files on top of my car as I fixed my hair in the reflection of my window. I stared at my reflection for longer than I care to admit. I sat in the driver’s seat and closed my eyes, picturing the architect’s face. As I drove off I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw a gaggle of paper trail off behind me, and all the women flew away. I kept driving down the road not stopping to pick up the women. The wind had freed them from me, and it was probably for their best.
Val Maloof is a Chicago-based writer originally and proudly from Boston, MA. She holds a BFA from Emerson College in Writing, Literature and Publishing. Her fiction has been published in The Drum Literary Magazine, 100 Word Story, Jellyfish Review, Bartleby Snopes, The Bookends Review, The Good Life Review, MicroFiction Mondays & Marathon Literary Review, Arcadia University. In 2025 she will be a resident at Château d’Orquevaux Artists & Writers Residency as a Denis Diderot grant recipient.
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