The Intersection of Love and Reality By Melissa Libbey

             Mike Maguire CC



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The Intersection of Love and Reality


Start on the highlighted route

I continue through the online dating profile, adding pictures and witty answers to prompts until I reach the end. At the end of the road, the choice is up to me, turn left or turn right?

Turn Right

He seems nice. Too nice. Why do the nice guys always turn me off? Guys who seem too eager to meet or too eager to please make me recoil and hunch over in my seat as I sit across the table from them on a first date. But the smooth, easy talking guys, these are the ones I want, the ones I pine for. They are always the ones who don’t call after a first date. 

Make a U-turn

Delete profile. Make a profile. Delete profile. Make a profile. Like the moon-controlled tides, I go back to swiping, but the men are all the same. I’m tired of no one sticking out. I’m thirty, and some days my ovaries tremble at the fact that I am still single. I’m ready for the white dress and tulle; I just need the man. I want to find someone who shines through the mess of online dating. I want to find a thorn in my side, a pain I can’t stop thinking about due to the constant throbbing. Some say love is pain but, what happens when there’s just pain and no love?

Merge onto Highway 35 

The date was going nowhere; we both knew it. My latest Hinge match asked to meet up for drinks, and I figured why not? The conversation hit a dead end but, we had just ordered a second round of Moscow Mules. He explains that he still lives with his parents and sees no reason to move out. While I suck at the ice in my glass, I find that he isn’t even trying to impress me. 

I pull out my second string stories; boring men don’t deserve my shower rehearsed scripts that have been carefully crafted through conversations with girlfriends and past lovers who enjoyed them. It’s just a drink; anyone can make it through one drink.

Slow Down, Construction up Ahead

“I just ordered my uber. Can I walk you to your car?” He asks. 

The night is cold, and I cross my arms in front of me and try not to stand too close. I don’t want to walk with him; I just want to get home. I’m tired from forcing myself to smile and carrying the conversation on my sore back. But like any “nice girl” would do, I nod, and he follows me to my car.

“Well, this is me,” I say as I walk up to my driver’s side door, giving him my back.

“Is it ok if I sit with you while I wait for my Uber?”

I hesitate.

He lingers.

I nod.

We slide inside my car. I start it up and blast the heat. I stare at the windshield; I watch as it slowly defrosts. Shiny, tiny snowflakes frozen to the glass, melt and disappear, and I am mesmerized by their fading beauty.

“I had a great time tonight.”

I forgot he was here.

“I would love to do it again.”

No. I would not.

He leans in, not to my side, which would have been more comfortable, but over the center console, on top of me. His, what seems like 200-pound build, is now hovering above my face. I don’t think I can get out of this one.

His lips smother mine, wet and forceful; I pull back until my head is pushed against the seat. I shudder as he towers over me. He shoves his hand past my waistband like a magician. He swiftly sticks his fingers inside me. The cold of his fingers shock me, and like them, I am frozen. 

“Please stop.” I push my hands to his chest and nudge him away.

“Oh, come on, you know you want this.”

He slowly pulls his dick out of his jeans, and he rubs himself as he smiles.

He presses his lips against me, ready for round two. His fingers dig deeper, hungrily; he has no desire to stop.

I let him continue for fear of making him angry. I’ve been called a tease before; I don’t want a replay of that interaction. 

I shift my body closer to the door; I feel around for the handle. I finally feel the smooth metal in my palm. I slowly start to pull the release.

Beep beep.

I freeze, the handle still in my hand.

He pulls back, checking his phone. 

“My uber is here; I’ll call you later.”

Take the Next Exit

He opens his door, and as he leaves, I shiver from the chill of the night that enters the car. My door is cracked open, but I wait until his uber drives off until I open it and slam it shut. It’s too late, the chill has already crept under my skin, and I am now too numb to drive.

He never called. 

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Melissa Libbey was born and raised in Rahway, New Jersey. She holds an M.A. in English and Writing Studies from Kean University. She curates the SPOKEN! Podcast with her students and serves as the Managing Editor of the SPOKEN! Magazine which works with students to share their voices and perspectives. She is a creative non-fiction workshop leader for Arts By The People. Currently, she is working on a memoir and her MFA in Creative Writing at Fairleigh Dickinson University and she is a full-time lecturer at Kean University.

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