Page 2 of Are You Gonna Run?
Eris:Also, I kill people.
This fucker has the twelve-foot skeleton I’ve had my eye on for years and he’s complaining about it. Maybe I’ll steal it from him before this is over.
Me:Killer, huh? Well that’s awkward, there can’t be two of us in this conversation. What are the odds of that?
Eris:What’s your death of choice?
Unease settles in my stomach. This could be a fun, cute little joke, or he could be completely serious. The internet is basically the world’s shittiest diary.
Me:Oh, you know. I’m a fan of psychological torture. After they listen to me sing for a few hours, they’re begging for the end.
Eris:That’s funny. So has anyone taken you to a haunted house yet?
I don’t get two words typed out before my phone buzzes again, but with something a little less welcome.
Sam:You’re really hot. You’re not insane, right? Because chicks as hot as you are always insane.
Why does anyone think that’s cute? He’s not the first one to say it to me, and every time, it makes me want to die alone. It would be better than being with someone like him. To Sam, I send a middle finger emoji. To Eris, I send a crying face. But when alternate bachelor number three finally messages and asks me if I’d like to join him and his wife, I realize I’m pretty fucking done.
Me:No, they haven’t. I normally don’t give out my phone number this quickly, but I have to delete this app. If you want to keep talking, text me. If not... I get it.
I follow up with my number then delete my account, heaving a sigh of relief when it’s gone. Maybe Eris will follow through, maybe he won’t — all I know is that if this doesn’t work out, I’ll take it as a sign from the universe that I really am too old for haunted houses.
I just don’t think I’m asking for much.
Two: Catfish
My hands are covered in candle wax when my phone rings for the twelfth time. Exhaling hard, I do my best to wipe off before answering with a rushed out, “Rowyn’s Wax, Rowyn speaking.”
“Rowyn’s Wax?” an unfamiliar yet alluring voice asks. “What kind of wax?”
I get at least one of these calls a week, so I slow down and give him the usual spiel. “I do personalized and themed candles, as well as wax melts. Did you have something specific in mind?”
“Not when I called,” he chuckles. “Do you usually give Tinder guys your work number?”
Tinder guys... oh my god.
“Eris, I’m so sorry. Both my work number and personal cell are on mywebsite, so I get calls to both. Any time I see a number I don’t recognize, I have to assume it’s work related.”
“Ah, yeah that makes sense. So you knew who it was pretty quick. Does that mean you didn’t give any other dudes your number?”
Shit. Well, it’s not like I’m planning on marrying the guy — who cares if he knows I’m not playing the field? “No, I didn’t. Your competition was slim to say the least,” I laugh. “I can’t do it anymore.”
“Well, I’m glad I made the cut even if the bar sounds like it was on the floor,” he jokes. “That’s cool you have your own business though, I’ll have to check out your website one day. Do you make wax people too?”
“No, I’m not that artistic. I just have an extremely developed olfaction so I’m good with scents. Candles and wax melts are easy. What do you do for work?”
“Roofing. It’s a family thing and I hate it some days, but it’s good money.”
So his voice is sexy as hell, he’s probably financially stable, and he works with his hands.
I definitely could’ve chosen someone worse.
“Bet it gets hot up there. Do you drink enough water?” Smooth, Row. Smooth. “That’s weird. Never mind.”
Chuckling, he adjusts the phone on his end and sighs. “Probably not. I usually chug the second I get back on the ground though. Doyoudrink enough water?”
“Not usually,” I admit, stepping over a box of failed candles to sit down. I really need to organize my basement better. “So uh... you’re hot, you have a good job, you’re charming. Other than you being a self-proclaimed serial killer, why are you single?”
