Two Hauntings and a Lovely Monsieur, Part One

Last Friday night, peaceful and close to sleep, I was swiping through Bumble a little bit, matching a bunch and generally feeling hopeful about the futures of my heart and hoo-ha, when, OF COURSE, there he was. The Shy One. Not the same picture he’d sent me from Sierra Leone, but one from the same series. His lips. His gentle eyes. His lightly bratty smile. His pink, pink sky.

I’d been feeling a little more steady, a little more over him lately, but the profound surge of fight-or-flight that came from a few moments with that picture pre-swipe-left smushed all my illusions of progress, at least for a little while. “You both like Ed Sheeran and Burna Boy!” Bumble unhelpfully proclaimed. Darn Spotify being connected to Bumble. Darn Afrobeat being my yard work music lately. Too, too much connection everywhere. Every algorithm a tangled road back to him, back to wistfulness.

I sobbed to BFF about it. I made a bedraggled Instagram story about it and sent it to three Close Friends. I never wanted to swipe again or kiss another stranger or text another (possibly cursed) “good morning” to anyone else.

But when I woke up in the morning I felt…mostly fine! The matches in my queue were cute and viable and it definitely wasn’t THEIR fault I got pink-sky-haunted! I said hello and felt my forward motion starting up again, just slightly rickety like a wooden roller coaster.

And then, last Saturday afternoon, a whoooole bunch of WhatsApp notifications. It was from a new number to get around the block—shady, but I’ll allow it. He sent a beautiful dreamy-sad faced picture: The Princely Guy.

He missed me. We would never forget me. Three kiss emojis, the lipstick print kind.

Of course I wrote back, what am I, made of stone?

He just wanted me to know he would always be there for me. The Princely Guy is one who uses the “love” word casually, which I like, instead of treating it like a taboo or a weird grail.

The Princely Guy had moved away and I definitely didn’t want a long-distance relationship. But it felt good to know everyone’s not out there forgetting me.

By Sunday night, I was on the phone with Le Monsieur, one of the Friday night matches. He’s a beautiful divorced-dad sweet talker my own age, originally from La Cote d’Ivoire. We talked for an hour and a half (!) while I worked on my maybe-impossible 1000-piece dahlia puzzle. He made me laugh. He made me want to remember my like SEVEN YEARS of French I’ve never really used. There’s a lot of Google Translate in this flirtation and I LOVE IT.

I thought it would be a while til I could meet Le Monsieur, but it wasn’t. 😊