Searching for the Spark

’Twas a cold winter day as Trevor picked up his phone and drew his finger in that magic gesture, unlocking his mobile device and its secrets. There were but few secrets; Trevor was not one for taking selfies, nor was he a mobile porn browser (laptops were preferred, and always in incognito mode). Trevor lived alone, but one could never be too careful.

’Twas the chill in the air that made Trevor go to that place of warmth: Tinder. “Let us see what we shall find here tonight” he said — or thought, rather. Trevor was not one for talking to himself; one could never be too careful.

His face showed on the screen as that holy application loaded: sullen, yet shaded with expectant love. Cupid’s radar pulsated once, twice, thrice as he waited to see what fine singles could be found in his area. The excitement was palpable, it was too much, he had to go to the window (to be truthful, despite his small, decrepit studio appearing to fall apart from the inside, the walls themselves were built so sturdily mobile signals failed to penetrate and bring their boredom-saving manna to the victims inside unless they were near a window made of glass — a substance markedly less sturdy than whatever ancient formation founded this apartment building).

The match lit, the spark caught, the tinder blazed alight. A smiling face appeared before him, short black hair, blue eyes, thin lips, clean eyebrows, slender face tilted at an acute angle. Monica. “Cute enough” Trevor decreed (in his head of course), and viewed her profile. Three photos, all similar (nearly too similar; Trevor had a feeling they were taken in the same day), no profile description to be found, nor any likes in common, but she lived close enough.

He swiped right, a like, a potential match waiting to be lit by the burning flame of love and passion.

The next single ready to mingle appeared, iPhone reflected in giant ski goggles. A fit girl, Trevor thought with a sigh. Sporty. Spontaneous. Ugh. Far too exciting for him. But, he thought, with a fit girl came a fit body (very fit indeed).

A swipe for the right, for the righteous, the lovers of excitement and genuine human connections.

The first left appeared, a picture with a quality so grainy Trevor unconsciously wiped the sand from his eyes. Clearly someone missed Selfies 101 in school, he thought (rather crudely) as he went through her photos and profile, some poorly-shot photos of a half-hearted smile mixing with a lazy profile. Don’t people take pride in themselves anymore? This was his thought as he tossed the poor woman into the left pile, the forgotten pile, the undesirables.

An aside, dear reader; let us leave Trevor to his Tindering. A visit, if you will, to the profile of Trevor: it seems only fair to reveal the genius and artistic profile that he has painstakingly handcrafted, as some of you may decry: “Well, is his profile so genius, so artistic, so painstakingly handcrafted, that he may snort and look down his nose at such an attempt at loveseeking?” ’Tis not my job to decide; I leave that to you.

Three photos awaited those fortunate enough to bumble into him. Three photos, yes; the perfect number in his mind. If they were not already impressed by the third photo, then the height of their standards were unscaleable; he was but a man, a mortal being. Three photos of better than average quality (our Trevor was no photographer, but an iPhone camera did wonders).

The first photo: a rendering of a deep, thoughtful man; a man in torment, a man battered and bruised by the tides of love; tides that always threated to drown him, tides that would have drowned lesser men, but oh no, not Trevor; a mere glimpse into his dull brown eyes and one knew (within their very soul) that this man was strong of spirit. No smiles adorned his smooth face. Real love was nothing to smile about.

The second photo: our brave hero amongst his friends. Camaraderie and brotherhood; were there any finer things in life? Trevor heard from a wise sage once that a photo of friends does wonders for the tinder roulette, as, and I quote, “it makes you seem like not some weird loner weirdo.” Trevor was struck by these wisdoms, and took them to heart.

The third photo was a dear and cherished photo, that of one and his family. His smile was nowhere to be seen (experts believe his smile to be all but extinct), but women loved a family man. So he heard; so he believed.

His biography; Shakespeare himself rolls in his grave this instant at such prose:

Don’t swipe right if your looking for a free meal. 6'1".

Trevor grimaced at his bad luck; all his likes expended and no new matches to show for it. Well, tomorrow was a new day. Other, older matches awaited patiently for his late night call, poised to come running into his arms; arms anxiously awaiting his true Tinder love.

But what to say? And who to say it to? The modern poet of our age bit his thin lip as he ruminated. Perhaps Jessica, who he went to coffee with last week.

Hey wyd?

Packaged and sent: awaiting pickup from addressee.

Next, to Carla, a match who burned very bright indeed (they engaged in a blazing feat of passion two weeks ago; had their passion been luminous the moon itself would have winced). No words exchanged since that beautiful moment, but now Trevor knew the time was right.

Hey wyd wanna smash

Such poetry; such artistry.

Yes, with such genius as this, was it any wonder our hero was still single?


Thanks for reading. Hit those claps if you enjoyed.

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