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First Impressions

The subtle art of internet dating

By L. M. WilliamsPublished 3 years ago 6 min read
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I was born for this. I've waited my whole life for something like this to happen. I'm not saying that I've prayed for a mass pandemic, no that would be a bit morbid and cruel and crazy. I might be crazy, but not that crazy. No, I hoped and prayed to whatever higher power being out there that would listen to a girl like me that something would happen (like a freak blizzard or everyone's doors got glued shut or like an alien attack?) to keep everyone inside so for once in my life I could be normal. Just like everyone else.

It's not that I don't want to go outside.

It's that I can't.

Nobody really understands when I say that. Most people think I'm making it up and that's why I flake or as my dad says "won't get a real job" aka something that makes me leave the house. A job where I can't work from home.

My sister is truly the only one who has accepted it. After all, she was the only one home with me that day. The day everything changed as I watched mom walk out the door. I'd watched her do it a million times. Walk down the steps, across the lawn, cross the street and collect the mail from the mailbox. But that day, she didn't look before crossing the street. She was waving back at me while I tapped on the window. Maybe if I hadn't been distracting her, she would have seen the car whipping around the corner. Maybe if they hadn't been on their phone, they would have seen my mom. Maybe if she just waited in the house and let someone else get the mail that day, she might still be here.

I'm not even sure if my therapist really gets it. She's helped me, though. I can leave the windows open now to feel the fresh breeze of spring, to smell the crisp scent of cut grass, to hear the echo and roar of the rain and stick my hand out until my fingers are frozen--to experience "the world" through an open window.

Once the pandemic started and there was the mandated quarantine, I waited for the unrest that everyone online complained about. About how people who didn't like going out before miss being able to have the option of not having to go somewhere. I figured, that for me like everyone else, not being allowed to go out might finally get me out of this, for lack of better word, fear.

I remember a couple months into quarantine going to the door and swinging it out and getting ready to take a step outside and feel the sun on my skin and the wind in my hair and whatever clichés that exist outside my front door, but as soon as my foot passed the threshold, I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. All I could hear was the roaring rush of my heart in my ears, little black dots swarmed the edges of my vision, my chest being weighed down by a thousand bricks.

I am not normal. I'm not like everyone else.

Frustrated, I had slammed the door behind me and went back to my regular routine.

That was almost a year ago.

When I admitted this to my therapist, she said it was a good idea to keep trying. I didn't have to commit to going anywhere or even leaving the porch. Hell, I didn't even have to stand on the porch. She said getting the foot out the door would be the first step. One day the panic attacks might be tame enough that the foot that crossed the threshold might be able to set down on the porch. Sometime after that I might be able to get both feet.

So once a week I stand at my front door with my right foot hovering over the threshold, the thin metal stripe that separates carpet from concert, the world I know from the one I desperately want to be a part of, and force myself to stand there until the pressure of not breathing is too great, until my body trembles so fiercely that I can no longer stand.

Breathlessly I collapse onto the couch, my entire body tingling as sensation slowly returns to it. My phone chimes and through tired eyes I read a message from my sister that reads "Don't forget you have a 'date' with Ben at 4pm."

Right, the zoom date. The zoom date with Ben. The date on zoom with Ben. Ben's zoom date.

A quick side glance at the clock tells me it's 3:50pm. I have not showered in three days. The sweat on my skin has curled the hairs that frame my face. There is a soy sauce stain on my shirt that reads "Eat A Bag of Dicks" with flowers on it. My sweatpants have a huge whole in the crotch, but I've become too emotionally attached to them to throw them away. Besides, I'm the only one that sees that anyway.

With a shrug containing the least amount of fucks given, I get up to retrieve my laptop and follow the link for the zoom chat that my sister has so painstakingly set up. "He's a real nice guy." She said. "Super sweet. Kinda quiet. Kinda weird. Like you." Honey, no one is as weird as me. My face flashes up on the scream, a sweaty hot mess of a monster with a flushed and yet pale face from my settling panic attack of my most recent attempt to go outside. He hasn't joined yet, so I spare the couple of seconds or minutes I might have to fill up my favorite mug. It has a cute little potted cactus on it with a tall cactus in the middle and two smaller, rounded pieces on the sides that says "Don't Be Such a Prick" and fill it to the brim with wine.

Normally, I like to be fancy and drink from a wine glass. But seeing as I'm supposed to be on a date and already look like a bag lady, I shouldn't add day-drinking to all of the things already working against me.

I used to get the same wine with my grocery store order. But after you've had the same three flavors over and over and over. And over. Again. You get a little (a lot of) tired of them and want to try something new. The last couple months I've gotten orders from this company called Bright Cellars who mail you wine. I get to try new wine and I don't have to leave the house. It's a win-win.

This new bottle is a Merlot with a fancy gold label and a bird on the front. I haven't even tried it yet, but I can smell the tangy bite of the spices that are in it and am more than eager to try it.

As I return to the table, Ben is on the screen. He doesn't see me come onto his screen, or at least I'm assuming not as he fills a black protein shaker bottle with beer. He's got on a black shirt with bold white block letters that say "I Woke Up For This?" and a laugh bubbles up in my chest and ripples through the air before I can stop it.

I don't know much about him, but I'm pretty sure I've just found my soulmate.

humanity
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About the Creator

L. M. Williams

I'm a self-published author that enjoys writing fantasy/supernatural/romance novels and occasionally dabble in poetry and realistic fiction. If not writing, I'm a freelance artist and a full time mom.

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