HONORABLE MENTION, Winter 2023
The Screw Turn Flash Fiction Competition
BY ISOBEL OLIPHANT
My thumb stops, hovering over his gorgeous face. He likes to cook. He likes to smile. He likes his niece. Paul, 35, Manhattan. I swipe right. We match.
“Hello Paul,” I type.
“Hey you . . .”
Immediate engagement, flirtatious ellipse, swiping on a Friday. Game on.
“Free tonight?”
No response. I’ve been on here long enough not to get discouraged. It’s a numbers game. Lots of bodies until you meet somebody. I also just paid $5.99 to put my profile in the spotlight so my odds are good.
I continue my search for a man within five miles. Okay, he’s handsome. Peter likes science, bicycles and poetry. We match.
“Hi Peter. Want to read me a poem?”
“Hey there. I certainly do.” Peter shows promise.
“Is tonight too crazy?”
“Just crazy enough. . . . Where should we meet?” Peter is fun! I click back to his profile. 39, Brooklyn.
“I was in a minor accident and still on crutches. Would you ever come to mine?”
Nothing. I start swiping again.
A message alert. “No prob! Do you like red or white?”
I turn the lights down and the heat up to set the mood.
Thirty minutes later I’m on one foot opening the door. We hug and it’s not awkward. Warm. I hop into the kitchen and he follows. I pull out two glasses and a corkscrew.
“You sit down,” He says, peeling the metal off a bottle of red.
“Mind hitting the record player?” I point to the console as Peter hands me a full pour.
He crosses the living room and clicks it on. “I don’t know Mose Allison.”
“Old now, I guess.”
“Your parents introduce you?”
“Must have.”
He sits next to me and I study him. I love really seeing someone for the first time because it’s usually also the last.
“How’d you get banged up?” He gestures toward my ankle and the butterfly bandage over my eyebrow.
“Pushed down the subway stairs. Silly.” This is when I could tell him that I’m not actually hurt, I’m actually dead. But I’ve tried that before, thinking somebody could be open to a new dating experience. No luck.
Peter winces. “Pushed?”
“Rush hour.”
“Cheers to just a few bruises.” He touches his glass to mine. “And to holding banisters.”
“Exactly.” I mock-grip his thigh and open my eyes wide, taking a sip. He laughs and opens toward me. Peter responds to comedy.
“You like design?” he says, looking around.
I raise my eyebrow in question.
“Mid-century modern, right? My sister is decorating her place.”
“Is it?” I need to change the subject. I’m sick of my stories. I haven’t made new ones in about fifty years—apart from dates—and you can’t exactly tell a new date about old ones. “This is a nice red.” I say. “Know much about wine?”
“Yes, actually.” He gets a look in his eyes and I know I’ve hit the jackpot.
“Say more.”
“My grandfather loved wine. . . .” Having no stories makes me a great listener. Guys love someone who will listen to them talk, uninterrupted. “He worked on a vineyard in California.” I let him wax poetic, pouring us another glass somewhere between “Napa nights . . .” and “He never drank again. . . .” Peter is unloading. He’s inched closer. “Thanks for letting me talk.”
“Of course.” I put my hand on his.
“You’re freezing!” Oh shit. “Let me help with that.” He surrounds my body with his and now we’re kissing. We’re rising and falling together like a wave and he grabs my calf. “I’m so sorry!” He recoils and looks at my ankle. I forgot to react.
“It’s almost healed,” I say, pulling him back to me. This is great. If he’s into the casual thing maybe he’ll come back.
“This is crazy but . . .” Oh no. “I feel like we have some sort of connection.” No.
“Absolutely,” I say. “But I also have to say I’m not looking for anything serious at the moment.”
“Ok, yeah, definitely.” He’s embarrassed.
“I think you’re fantastic, I’m just not in a place to date.” Unless the place is my apartment, because it’s literally the only place I exist. “But I am in a place to hook up.” He smiles and I touch his leg.
“I don’t want you to take me out. I don’t want to meet your family and I definitely don’t want you to meet mine.”
“Wow, you sound like the perfect woman,” he says with a wry smile. I laugh, but I’ve heard the joke a couple hundred times. We’re making out again.
He pulls off my jeans.
“Nice.” He says.
“What?” I ask.
“Most girls wear these tight things and I have to peel them like some sort of fruit. . . . Do you have a condom?”
“We don’t need one, I can’t get pregnant.”
“I would feel more comfortable.”
“I doubt that,” I say as I point to the bathroom. “Under the sink.”
And now we’re having sex.
“Jesus. You’re still cold.”
“You’re hot.” I bite his lip to distract. And then it’s over.
“I’m playing soccer in the morning. You should come if you want.”
“I don’t want, remember?” We start getting dressed.
“Maybe we do it again?” We’re almost at the door.
“Maybe,” I say and give him a kiss.
On Tuesday he messages in-app. “Hey, the other night was fun. Here’s my number if you want to switch to text.”
On Wednesday I’ve decided he wants more than I can give when he writes, “Hey, how’s your ankle? How’s your week?”
On Friday I’m swiping again. My thumb stops, hovering over his gorgeous face. He’s French. We match. “Bonjour Simon.” I write and start swiping again, just in case.
“Bonjour. Parlez-vous français?”
I click back to his profile. Simon loves hiking, his dog, and his boat.
I swipe over to messages and see that I’ve missed one from Peter.
“Are you seriously ghosting me?” I block him and respond to Simon.
“Un petit peu. You free tonight?”
Isobel Oliphant lives and works as a Creative Director in New York and has been writing short stories since she was short. She attended university in Scotland and likes to play the guitar, sing, and hone her cocktail-making skills—sometimes at the same time. She loves the beach, no matter the season, and can often be found surveying the surf with her equally beach-crazed dog, Remy. “Ghost Story” is her first foray into the phantom world and her first piece of published fiction.