Lesbian Online Dating and You

She is wearing a baseball cap in her profile picture. On your first date she wears the same baseball cap. She sleeps in it. She bathes in it. One night, overcome by curiosity, you remove it and find an identical baseball cap underneath. And another one under that. And another. And another. She does not have a head. She never had a head.

You are going for coffee. You are always going for coffee. All mugs are as one mug. You drink infinitely and not at all.

She is looking for something serious. Under beds. In dark alleys. Beneath the floorboards of abandoned churches.

She knows your ex.

The message in your inbox says “hey :)”. Her profile says “hey :)”. When you meet all she can say is “hey :)”. Somehow she articulates the emoticon. Her eyes are screaming.

The message reads “wow, you have great taste in movies!” This confuses you, since you have not told her any of your favourite movies. You turn around and see her crouched in front of your DVD shelf, gently stroking the cases. She looks over her shoulder at you and smiles. “Great taste,” she says. Her voice is a sibilant hiss; a drop of saliva falls from her gaping mouth to the floor and sizzles, burning through the laminate. “Taste,” she says.

She loves to sing. Her voice makes you feel flushed and dizzy; you taste the blood seeping from the roof of your mouth and begin to laugh hysterically.

Her About Me cautions that proper grammar matters a good deal to her. Without it, the ritual incantation just won’t work.

All of her pictures are group photographs. You try to figure out which person she is by searching them all for a familiar face, but your eyes dart away of their own accord and the features start to blur together. A faint buzzing fills your head and you are suddenly overwhelmed by your need for sleep. Just a little nap. It won’t take long. They’ll be here soon.

She loves to cook. Here, try this thing she just made. You’ll like it. You’ll like it.

The couple is looking for a sexy bi girl. They lost her years ago and have spent every waking moment since wandering the earth, calling her name.

She does not like the scene and never goes to bars. She prefers to spend her nights inside with her sweetheart, watching Netflix and constructing elaborate labyrinths out of mirrors to deflect malevolent spirits.

Her profile states that she owns a dog. She references her dog in her message to you. She sends you a picture of her dog. When you show up to meet in person she has not brought her dog with her.

On your first date she admits that she lied about her age. She is not twenty eight. In fact, she has not yet been born at all. She disappears in a puff of smoke that smells like oranges and old clocks, leaving you with the cheque.

She has never been with a girl before. She has never met a girl before. She has never seen a girl before. But she has heard stories, and she is afraid.

When you go to dinner you notice that she has a full sleeve of tattoos, a detail you somehow missed when you looked at her pictures. When you compliment her on them she looks puzzled, then frightened. The tattoos pulse in time with her heartbeat. You swear you can hear them humming.

“Wants children,” her profile reads. You bring her some, but they are not enough. They are never enough.