“I didn’t know that book was even in print, The 120 Days of Sodom, by Marquis de Sade.” Janie, the only one who hadn’t laughed like mad, frowned at me. “I know it was translated a few years ago, but I thought you could only get it as an e-book.” She stood hovering to one side of the couch, several red curls having come loose from her bun, her black, horn-rimmed glasses giving her the aura of a stern librarian.
Holding a two-liter bottle of water, she was stretching her back and appeared to be agitated by the news that The 120 Days of Sodom was available in paperback yet no one had seen fit to notify her. Everything irritated her these days. She’d had the worst morning sickness for fourteen weeks, and had been dwelling in a perpetual state of perturbed dissatisfaction—her words, not mine—since entering her second trimester. This was her first pregnancy, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out to be her last.
“How is it possible that you didn’t read the title of the book before you bought it?” Fiona’s sympathetic look persisted as she rubbed her belly; like Janie, she was also pregnant; unlike Janie, she seemed to take her pregnancy woes in stride.
Where Janie was remarkably tall and carried her pregnancy entirely in front, Fiona was short and her rounded belly was visible from all angles. This was Fiona’s third child with her husband Greg. They’d been married for fifteen years and were still ludicrously in love with each other. But strangely, it wasn’t at all nauseating. Neither of them were perfect and they embraced each other’s faults with adorable aplomb.
#RelationshipGoals
“I don’t know. I just rushed into the bookstore—which, as it turns out, was an erotic bookstore, so make a note of that—and grabbed the book closest to the cashier. I was in a hurry.”
“But why did you need a book at all?” This question came from Kat, the youngest member of our knitting group at twenty-four, and also historically the least vociferous. Although lately, I’d say during the last year in particular, she’d become more talkative.
“I didn’t want to be that person staring at my phone. It felt too normal. I wanted to seem cultured, interesting.” Even as I said the words they felt puerile.
God, I hated dating.
I hated it.
Hate.
“You are cultured and interesting.” Elizabeth shot me a pointed look before returning her attention to the sweater-in-progress on her needles.
“Yes, but you don’t know how it is out there. Men have this FOMO—fear of missing out. I feel like they’re always looking over my head, looking for her. First impressions count a lot when meeting an online match for the first time. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like the stakes are higher these days. You don’t warm up to a person, no one seems to have time for that. You only have fifteen seconds or less to make a good impression before the person makes up their mind.”
“That sounds very stressful.” Ashley sighed discontentedly. “What ever happened to taking the time to actually know a person?”
“People don’t do that anymore.” Sandra flicked her wrist toward Ashley’s image on the laptop. “It’s all swipe left for sex or right to murder.”
“Not quite, but, yeah. It’s pretty bad out there.” Kat chuckled, the sound was shaded with sorrow. “Split decisions based on what a person looks like, how impressive their job title is, and how much money they make. It’s all about ego with these men, as if people can’t just like each other anymore. They have to check certain boxes. At least, that’s how my last few dates felt.”
“That’s unhealthy.” Sandra appeared to be offended on Kat’s and my behalf. “And it’s unwise. I was just reading a study out of Princeton where perceptions of attractiveness change dramatically over time. A group of college students rated each other’s attractiveness at the beginning of a semester and then again at the end. Lo and behold, the best-looking guy and girl at the beginning were more often considered dogs by the end, because they were fundamentally unlikable.”
“Not all of us can be admired from afar by genius hackers disguised as waiters, Sandra.” I gave my friend a teasing smile, referring to her husband, Alex. They’d been married just under a year and a half and were the image of marital bliss.
“Can we go back to your date? You didn’t realize until you left that by asking if kidnapping and sexual torture sounded like fun to you, the guy was referring to your book and not trying to make a lewd proposition?” Kat asked. She was sitting on the floor and gazing at me, her elbow on the coffee table, her chin in her palm.
“Exactly.” I nodded once, remembering the odd encounter and feeling both embarrassed and indignant. “However, in my defense, I’d been very distracted by his bizarre behavior by that point. Like I said, he didn’t look at all like his picture—”
“I hate it when that happens,” Kat lamented flatly, lifting her martini glass toward me.
“Thank you.” I mirrored her gesture, lifting my glass as well. “Why do they do that? What’s so difficult about accurately representing oneself on dating websites?”
“I know I missed out on online dating,” Elizabeth twisted the end of her braid thoughtfully, “but it seems like this is par for the course, right? The picture not matching the person?”
“Yes, well, sometimes. Except in this guy’s case it didn’t make sense.”
“How so?” Fiona asked, her gaze moving between her knitting and me. She was working on a baby hat with yarn so soft it felt magical.
“For one thing, he was heavier in his picture online, softer in the middle. Less fit.”
“That’s your type, right?” Sandra licked the edge of her glass, peering at me. “You like the cuddly kind.”
“Exactly. But this guy, in real life, clearly worked out several times a week. At the gym. With weights.” I made a face of distaste. “Who misrepresents that? Usually it’s the other way around.”
“You said his eyes were the wrong color too, right?” Ashley had righted herself from her couch and was also sipping from a martini glass. As much as possible, she tried to coordinate her beverage choices in Green Valley with ours in Chicago.
“Correct. His profile had listed gray, but his were brown. Not that I minded at all,” I rushed to add, “because he had gorgeous eyes. I don’t know why he’d list the wrong color.”
“But no beard,” Ashley added. Her Tennessee twang and wrinkled nose made the observation sound like an accusation. “What kind of man claims to have a beard, posts pictures of said beard, and shows up beardless?”
“That just ain’t right.” Sandra nodded her agreement, pointing at the laptop screen and Ashley’s image. “You don’t cry beard. Where is the trust after that?”
“Gone,” Ashley proclaimed with a snap.
The sound of Fiona’s front door opening and closing had me glancing over my shoulder. I spotted Greg and Alex strolling into the family room. The tall Brit was dressed in his exercise gear but he didn’t look like he’d gone running yet, and Alex, naturally, wore his signature black.