Love Me Tinder

A little sweet nothing about swiping right by Laura Turner

I enter through glass double doors. You are sitting alone. I walk over, shed my coat, and repose, mentally rolling my eyes. The Espresso machine whirrs, marking my third swipe this month.

Soon, you gaze at me with emerald eyes, your dark hair short, soft, and wavy. You reach out, place your lips to my hand. Your name is Angel you say, “AN-hel.” An electricity tempers my spine.

“May I?”

I nod my head yes, mesmerized. You draw circles in my palm, then let go.

You pull my bagel close – making certain butter, cream cheese, touch every corner.