Politic

He calls himself a romantic moderate. It’s a routine, a bit his friends know the contours of. When it comes to dating, he says, “I’m socially liberal, fiscally conservative.”

Take first dates, for example. “I’m happy to eat you out in the restaurant bathroom,” he’ll say, “but we’re splitting the check.”

He makes middle of the road campaign promises. “Yes, I will text you back in a timely fashion. No, I won’t brunch with your friends.” Or, “yes, I will get myself tested. No, I won’t ask after your sexual companions.” Etc. Etc.

A problem arrives with — let’s call her M. He meets her through a mobile phone application. She tells him about her partner of seven years. He doesn’t ask. “Partner”, that’s the word she uses. Sexless, formless, modern.

A month in, she vacations in Mexico City. They text in a frenetic high-school way. lmao, gif, gif, winky face, hbu. In the lull between messages, he imagines her with “partner”. They are content in the shade of jacaranda trees. They are sharing a michelada sip-by-sip. Her collarbone is bare, her legs mottled with freckles.

M returns to him aglow and at ease. He feels his socio-romantic ideology fraying, warping, inverting. He wants to buy her things, superfluous, indulgent things. Like salsa lessons, or a plush new dog bed for Kookie, or that thirty-seven-dollar bottle of olive oil she likes for its graphic design. He wants to watch her drizzle it all over her salads.

He doesn’t. Of course not. But he does invite her to dinner with his friends. When she doesn’t show or answer his texts, he gets the message. And so he says in a voice reaching to pick up the old joke, “third party candidates are only ever protest votes.”