The Dragons, the Giant, the Women, стр. 38

to a moan. And as we sprinted and the memory of the word flew past us and our heads swayed against the wind, I wanted only to see Mam—to hear that he was wrong, to press my face into her core until the sound of the world wholly stopped, to have her explain this new country to me in a way she never could. Wanted to see beyond the tears but they kept coming down. Wanted to return to the grim fantasies of my daydreams but I could not find them. Could not hear more than my sisters crying. Could not see my home though it was so close. Could not see my Mam though I knew she was there. Legs and stomach hurt from sprinting. Thoughts a blunder and I was finally awake.

ASIDE:

WHEN THE THERAPIST SUGGESTS I BEGIN DATING AGAIN

FOURTEEN

Leo. He’s a photographer. BU. He’s five feet ten. Three pictures all of himself against walls (one brick wall, outside, side profile) holding his camera. One of his hands on his dog. A hound. The dog looks disappointed in him. A picture in Johannesburg or Port-au-Prince or some other Black country where he’s surrounded by a dozen five-year-olds in uniform, just as ashy and carefree as you were at that age, holding up peace signs. He’s smiling with his mouth open.

Left.

Oran. He’s a photographer. NYU. He’s six feet. There’s a picture of him taking a picture. Another in a suit with a press pass, against a Hamptons magazine step-and-repeat. Another on an air mattress with a tiger. His camera is in one hand, a baby’s bottle in the other.

Left.

Vick. He’s a photographer. SVA. He has no height. Nothing expository. He takes pictures with celebrities, and he isn’t smiling in any of them. Not even in the one with Jason Statham. He’s kind of cute, but Left.

Sammy. Sammy has no height or education. Sammy has no profession. Sammy has one blurry photograph of the right side of his face. He’s looking out of a window squinting. Sammy doesn’t want to play games. Sammy is looking for the real deal. Sammy knows people get on here to get laid. Sammy doesn’t want that. He wants to wash your hair. He wants to make love to your mind. He’s sick of vain women, sick of New York. Sammy is a lover. The only lover

Left.

Ivan. Ivan is six feet. Brooklyn College. Ivan has muscles. Ivan likes to party. All of Ivan’s pictures are taken with friends at clubs. Oh, wait, Ivan has one photo alone. Ivan and his muscles and some Oakleys are on a yacht with an opened beer bottle and Ivan left his last fuck on shore. Ivan wants you to know that looks can be deceiving. He’s a teddy bear, he says. Swipe right and

Left.

Neil. He’s five feet eight. Pretty face. Morehouse man. Very straight teeth. Very white teeth. He’s been through some thangs and he wants you to know. He’s over his savage ways. He’s grown now and wants a grown-ass woman to hold him down. Neil is also the real deal. He wants a girl who will be with him through the good and the bad. He wants a lifetime partner. He knows this is just an app.

Left.

Etienne. Etienne is wearing Freddy Krueger gloves in a bathroom mirror.

Left.

Tremaine. Hates bitches who swipe left and don’t respond to him. He hates games. Tremaine is looking for a real one. He’s ready for his Halle Berry though he looks like a seductive moose.

Left.

Ibn. Oh no, I know Ibn.

LEFT.

Mason. He’s fine, y’all. We have some mutual friends. Mason went to Yale. Mason is five feet eleven. Mason likes Murakami books and Vice News. Mason likes Ta-Nehisi Coates. Mason mentors kids, y’all. He watches Bill Maher. Mason is new to this thing, this online dating thing. Mason is a lawyer. Mason is an MD/MBA. He has very white teeth. He winked at the camera after Tough Mudder. Mason likes button-ups and attended the Veuve Clicquot Polo Classic last year. Mason has style.

Left.

Ian. He’s six feet. NYU. Not much information, but he’s Christian and he quotes Scripture and he’s wearing a Commes des Garçons sweater. He’s cute, he works in finance, which, ugh, but whatever. He has a nice smile. He lives a mile and six-tenths miles away so no long distance. No bathroom selfies, no tigers. Whatever.

Right.

ian messages right away. ian wants you to sit on his face.

three-month interlude

during which time you learn the man you almost married has found someone else. they’re casually dating, a mutual friend tells you while looking at the ceiling, as if describing the contents of a soju cocktail. you want to shake her. this is your life. how? it’s been about seven months, she says. but the last you heard he was broken too. you’re dating, too, she reminds you and good because we won’t be in our twenties for long and so what? you’ve been seeing a therapist and the last you heard he had been writing you a letter and he worked on it every day and he wanted to make sure it was perfect before sending it. the last you heard he was at a party and he was sober. and he was hiding, how the hell? and where? where did she find him hiding?

Tailor. Tailor is six feet. Tailor is in real estate. Tailor lists no school. Tailor likes to read, he likes films, he likes Brooklyn.

Right.

FIFTEEN

Deda texted. I did not immediately answer. It said: “Did you read the article I sent?” I was on my way to meet a boy and I was late again. I had canceled an appointment with the therapist, my second in a row. I changed my clothes more times than I could count and I almost sent a picture of the unremarkable dress to Wi for the boost I so desperately needed, the kind only she could give, with intentional spelling errors only teachers would make, and too many emojis. In high school we did not have