Ken's Second Act

Short story: She did a number on me

Note to readers: I submitted this short story — a work of short fiction under 1,000 words — to a contest sponsored by Craft, an online literary magazine. The publication notified me via email a few days ago that it didn’t make the next round. Entering writing contests is a crap shoot, and I wasn’t overly optimistic about my chances. I wrote it on a whim on the deadline day and submitted it via an online portal before midnight. I decided to post it with minor edits. While it is a work of fiction, it tells what can and does happen with online dating in the age of social media. It’s a quick read. Look for hidden meanings.

My name is Bruce Butler. I’m 65 years old. I’ve been retired from teaching for five years. I moved from Fresno, California, to Palm Springs into the condo I inherited from my deceased parents.

Gee! I’m beginning to sound like a video for an online dating service. That description is not totally inaccurate. I got divorced 25 years ago and broke up with my last girlfriend five years ago while still living in Fresno. I’ve rarely dated since then. I like the beauty of the desert and nearby mountains in Palm Springs, but the dating scene sucks here if you are my age and a straight white male. I tell women my name, and they think I’m gay.

Anyway, I use social media, and I found I got a lot of attention on Instagram, maybe because I think women outnumber men on it. I posted several photos of myself: some hiking or with my friends. I started getting followers, known as “notifications.” I looked at their pictures, and many appeared to be of beautiful women. Many of these women initiated conversations, often just by saying “Hi.” A few women sounded slutty. One of them offered to drive from Los Angeles to meet me at my home if I paid her $300. I told her I wasn’t looking for a prostitute. If I were, I could find someone closer to home. I blocked her and other followers.

Yet, one conversation started about three months ago and is continuing. The follower went by the name Dee Cee. She posted photos of a woman with a light complexion and long brown hair with the Manhattan skyline and the Eiffel Tower in the background. She seemed cosmopolitan and well-traveled. Like the others, she started the conversation and got to the point. “My name is Malina Fox. I’m 35 years old and divorced and live in New York. May I have your name? Where are you from, and what is your age this year?”

I replied, “I’m Bruce and I’m from Fresno, California. I’m a year older than I was last year.”

Malina pressed me about my age and said, “You have a nice name and live in a great place.”

“Fresno isn’t so great. The air is dirty, and there is a lot of crime,” I retorted. “I now live in Palm Springs.”

She flattered me after I shared my photos. “You are handsome and look like you are 20 years younger.”

“Thank you for the compliments,” I messaged. “Are you concerned about our age difference?”

“Age is just a number. I like mature, older men.”

Fine! I thought. I asked what she did for a living. A fashion designer, she responded. I told her I taught high school English before retiring.

Malina said she seldom used Instagram and told me to chat with her on Telegram, a phone app. I set up a Telegram account despite my misgivings about its Russian owner and groups like Hamas using it. She made a video call the next day, and I confirmed she matched the appearance of her Instagram photos. She had a thick Eastern European accent, and she told me she came from Moscow and had an uncle in the Big Apple.

We talked briefly, partly because the quality of video calls was uneven. Then, after a few weeks, I suggested meeting with her. I was reluctant to fly to New York, so I invited her to stay in my guest bedroom. “You can get away from the snow and enjoy the weather in the seventies with plenty of sunshine.”

Malina checked airline flight information and told me she could book a round-trip flight for $459 and arrive on Valentine’s Day. How romantic! I thought. But just days before her scheduled arrival today, she asked me to wire half of the total to her PayPal account. I felt a little skeptical about the last-minute arrangements, but I decided to take the risk to meet a great woman. She arranged a flight on United Airlines, with a transfer in Denver. The flight number was 211 and was due to arrive at 2:30 p.m. Feb. 14.

I tried to create a great impression by buying a bouquet and arrived at the Palm Springs airport 10 minutes before the flight’s arrival. I waited for Malina in the baggage claim area and was pleased to learn the flight arrived only a few minutes late. I waited for luggage and approached unaccompanied women, asking if they were Malina. They looked at me kind of funny, said “no,” and walked away. As many as 100 passengers boarded the flight, but Malina was nowhere in sight.

I asked the ticket agent. “Sir, we had nobody by that name on Flight 211,” she said.

I decided to confront Malina by calling her on Telegram. However, the account was deleted. Damn! I didn’t know how else to get in touch with her. In frustration, I threw the flowers in the trash and walked to my car. The Who’s song Won’t Be Fooled Again played on the radio. Age is just a number, I said to myself, mocking Malina’s accent. She did a number on me.