Down The Rabbit Hole

Trying to capture the Hinge experience, in all its mind-numbing flair.

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Prompt: Your task is to write about a time you fell into a "rabbit hole." Place yourself in the midst of that rabbit hole and write an essay exploring how you got there, where you were going, or where you were hoping to arrive.

9:32 pm. I’m sitting in my bed. Alone. In the private pink light of my neon sign. A nightly call out to the void, waiting for someone to call back: I want you. Miguel liked your photo. Their eyes stare back at me, promising sex, companionship, love, even. Facing the mirror, phones in front of their face, to the side, over their left hip. Baby pictures, distorting camera angles, improper capitalization.

10:17 pm. This is pretty humiliating for them. Their lives, reduced to six photos and three sentences. Like Mike who seems to always be holding a beer in photos, dislikes tomatoes, and thinks the 2007 classic Surf’s Up is the best film ever made, the one with animated penguins, who surf. Or Lizzie, who’d rather stay in and read a book than go out, loves words of affirmation, and has an electric blue phone case. I imagine what it would be like to lie here next to one of these strangers. Would I prefer someone who drinks beer or has a bright blue phone case? What if they always have dirt under their fingernails? What if they think I do? Judgment is at the forefront of this experience. I hope mine lasts more than the two seconds I typically spend on a page before shuffling it away to the left, out of sight.

10:55 pm. I look around my bed, my body taking up a third of the queen-sized space, as if I’m taking them on a tour of the hole they could fill. Emma, what do you think of my butter yellow sheets? The uncrossable space between individuals hinged together. Express lane to partnership. It worked for my brother. Twice. My turn.

11:43 pm. Even with an algorithm, my efforts are fruitless. I could pay 24.99 for a week’s subscription to the premium interface, where I will “get seen sooner and go on 3x as many dates!” “Skip the line!” We buy perfumes and shoes and sparkling jewelry to catch the eye of another. Perhaps this is no different. More money, more love. But perhaps this is utterly different. In 2D, the meeting is devoid of a signature scent or the chime of stacked bracelets, of exchanged glances—flattening their souls, but only of those my algorithm chose.

12:00 am. My thumb starts to cramp from repeatedly reaching to the bottom left corner, where the X sits. The faces blend, 1/2 shutter speed. Then I’m reminded that this led to nine months with a guy who put “thrifting, music, and coffee” as his interests. That’s it. Close out the app. Slam my phone down. Pull up the cover and close my eyes.

Next to me: an empty space and a piece of metal.