Modern Mating: A Fable

Indian Summer, the sun shining like an IPad 2, the birds tweeting: “Can’t wait to head back down South. #winteriscoming”.

                Jane sat on a bench alone eyeing the boy who sat facing away from her with a laptop propped on his knees. She spied on his Facebook profile, wishing she could log on to quench her lonliness. Out here in the real world, she felt only sorrow and awkward failure, never able to properly communicate with those with whom she wished she could.

                Jane craned her neck, hoping it would signal to the boy she wanted to talk to him. For some reason (maybe because he wore Dr. Dre Beats headphones, which block out sound like a plane door being wrenched open mid-flight, the sound-machines designed to optimize the boy’s listening experience as if he were in the studio with the artist which through his open Spotify playlist she could tell was Smash Mouth which she herself had not even heard since she was seven), he did not notice her initiation of the conversation.

                She then tried something more drastic, something that may have come across as so forward and attention-seeking, the wild prey could be scared away. She muttered to herself, “Bored, hmu.”*

                *H.M.U.: Acronym for “Hit Me Up”

                He did not, however, hit him up, and she felt cheated as he liked “Scarlett Johansson” who surely he only followed on Twitter because of her breasts, but in no way her acting abilities. Such a cursory glance offered all of this information to Jane, who could sense things about people. She called this naked intuition.

                She began to resort to less lady-like measures, which included blurting out in repetition “I’m single,” “I’m in a relationship,” “I’m single,” “I’m in a relationship” and whipping out her phone to snap pictures of her cleavage. But with no Instagram to which to upload these pictures, she soon felt her efforts defeated.

                Then she was struck with the most awful idea, a notion so radical that if she were French, they would slice off her head with a guillotine. And the guillotine would be branded with an Apple logo and cost three times as much as normal guillotines. She decided, in a fit of hysteria, lunacy, or brilliance, that she would attempt to evoke vocal contact with the boy.

                He was super cute, wearing his hair like Justine Bieber, with the complexion of Edward Cullen, the combined eyes of every band member in One Direction rolled into one. She strut over to him, trying to only reveal certain angles of her face to appear most attractive because he would have to buy her a few movie tickets and they would have to sit through a few boring Adam Sandler or Madea movies before she could show him “her true self.”*

                *Her true self was a pimple on her neck, inconveniently right blow her left cheek. She also considered it a great secret that she clandestinely loved Dashboard Confessional, but who doesn’t? Also, sometimes she possessed the horrible habit of wearing a dream catcher in her hair as an accessory.

                Jane: Hi, whats up? J

                Boy: Heyy, do I know u? Ur not on my contact list

                Jane: No im jane

                Boy: Cool, wanna go out? 😛

                Jane: Sur! :O

                Boy: Were do u wanna go? O.o

                Jane: A new movie this wk end. Billy Madison 2

                Boy: Pick u up at ate

                Jane: XoX 😀


                Twenty years later, Jane married this boy over Skype via her IPhone.


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