Alex Montgomery

Pay No Attention to the Hole in My Sock

We met on Tinder, because of course we did.I used to think about that a lot, about how something I'd gotten so used to being arbitrary and inconsequential could bring me something so real, so visceral. The cultural implications didn't escape me; was what I had now some allegory for the advent of modern, technology-based romance, or some assertion that love, real-love, could poke its head out from the pile of warm, limp bodies and drink in the fresh air of existence? I used to think, "well, yes," but now I don't think I care. We matched in June of such and such year. At least, I think it was June. It was during the summer after my first year at university, and I had just gotten my old job back, jockeying popcorn at the concession stand at the movie theater in my hometown. I was staying with my mother and getting drunk on my days off. Things were sort of okay, or at least about as okay as they were before I left. But I was still lonely. So we got to talking.