The use of my first name is one surprising little gut punch. But the real one, the one that shuts me up for a minute, is the obvious answer to his taunting question.
Wasn’t it just a few nights ago that I sat and swiped through the finest algorithmically-approved men that New York City had to offer, and found them all lacking? That feeling of fine was just so overwhelming. I knew without having to find out myself that, if I did swipe right and go out on a date, they’d all be so perfectly fine. They would all hold doors and pick up the bill and tell me I looked pretty.
But not one of them would make me feel anything. No flutter, no spark, not even mild curiosity about what might happen if they tried to kiss me.
Then there’s Lukas Lazarev, who has never once asked my permission for anythi
