The Speed Date

Mark

It’s fine. This is fine.

This is the normal kind of self-inflicted hell people crawl into when they’ve run out of Hail Marys and learned that prayer, apparently, is not a dating strategy.

I’m forty. My hair is thinning in ways I pretend not to notice, I’ve got a stable, mind-numbingly boring job in insurance that somehow still manages to suck every ounce of color out of the world, and I have a muffin obsession that borders on erotic. I’m not ashamed of that last part. Muffins are reliable. Muffins don’t ghost you after three good dates and two better nights. Muffins don’t flinch when you say the word “relationship” like it’s a slur.

And yeah. I want to date. Like, really fucking date. Not “hang out.” Not “see where it goes.” I want the kind of shit that comes with toothbrushes left in each other’s bathrooms, the phone calls just to check in, the Sunday afternoons where you both fall asleep on the couch with your legs tangled. The kind of shit my parents had before it all went to hell.

So here I am. Speed dating. In a rented hotel ballroom that smells faintly of Lysol and desperation. My tie is the third one I tried on—red was too aggressive, blue made me look like a loan officer. I settled on green. No fucking clue why. Maybe it said I was earthy or trustworthy. Maybe I’m just clinging to delusion like a lifeline.

I changed my shoes twice. Black made me feel like I was heading to a funeral. Brown felt like trying too hard. I settled on dark gray. Completely neutral. Just like my fucking love life.

Fifty women. Five-minute intervals. Fifty women to take one look at me and internally go “Meh, next” while I pretend I’m not dying inside. It’s like getting rejected by a revolving door of polite smiles and polite excuses, each one a little papercut across what’s left of my ego.

But what the fuck else am I supposed to do? Tinder? Tried it. Got ghosted more than a goddamn haunted house. Bumble? Sure, but apparently “emotionally available” is code for “clingy” now. Set-ups? Went on a date with a woman who brought her dog. Not to the park. To dinner. The dog had a booster seat.

I even did the church casserole contest. Church. With aprons and jello molds and friendly widows who called me “a nice young man” and tried to set me up with their recently divorced daughters, half of whom looked like they hadn’t smiled since Bush was in office.

So yeah, I’m doing this. I’m sitting at this fucking little round table, sipping on watered-down merlot out of a plastic cup and pretending like this isn’t some kind of existential punishment wrapped in a name tag and timed conversations. I’ve practiced smiling without looking desperate. I’ve rehearsed my job description so it doesn’t sound like I’m a human sedative. “I help people understand risk”—what the fuck does that even mean?

And the worst part? The absolute worst part? I’m a good guy. I know that sounds like some incel bullshit, but I swear I mean it in the real sense. I show up. I listen. I give a fuck. I don’t cheat. I don’t ghost. I like talking about feelings, for Christ’s sake. I like making breakfast. I’ve got a killer blueberry muffin recipe that would make someone fall in love if they just stayed long enough to fucking taste it.

But you know what they want? Not always, but often enough that it burns? They want the guy who won’t text them back for two days. The one with a sleeve of tattoos and commitment issues and a car that smells like weed and lost dreams. The one who makes them feel “excited” and “on edge” because his love is something to earn, to chase, to fight for.

And I? I am dependable. I’m steady. I’m muffin-level steady. But apparently, that doesn’t get you laid. That doesn’t get you loved.

It gets you five-minute conversations with women who can’t even remember your name when the bell rings.

So yeah. This is fine. Totally normal. Just a grown man trying not to look too eager while waiting to be gently rejected by fifty strangers.

I’ve already mapped out the escape plan. Bathroom break after table twelve. Scope the bar. See if I can bribe a bartender for something stronger than this piss wine. Try not to look at the exit too long. Try not to hope that just maybe—maybe—one of them will hear me talk about muffins, or my dog, or the time I cried watching a YouTube video about penguins mating for life, and not instantly put me in the “too soft” pile.

Just once, I’d like to be someone’s fucking type.

And if I’m not?

Well, I’ve got muffins at home.

The little ding starts, all chipper and fake, like the sound your microwave makes when it’s done reheating leftover shame.

“Evening, everyone, and welcome to our tenth Speed Date Matchmaking Night!” a man bellows from the front of the room like he’s emceeing a goddamn game show instead of a social bloodbath. He’s wearing a salmon-pink blazer that looks like it crawled out of a thrift store clearance bin, two sizes too tight over a beer belly that jiggles when he laughs—like Santa Claus if Santa gave up and started selling used Hyundais. His teeth are too white, his voice too loud, and his eyes sparkle with the deranged optimism of a man who’s never had to swipe on an app while nursing a two-year dry spell.

“We assure you,” he croons, extending the last syllable like it’s a promise from God, “tonight you’ll fiiiiind looooove!”

Cue the fucking applause.

Some people clap. One guy whistles like this is a concert and not a desperate Hail Mary to avoid dying alone. A few women whoop. Someone actually shouts “Yeah!” like they’re excited, which honestly makes me question whether I’ve wandered into some cult recruitment ceremony by accident.

I feel like I want to fucking die.

Not in a dramatic, “oh woe is me” Shakespearean sense. No. More like a “please let a chandelier fall on my head so I don’t have to make small talk with yet another Pilates instructor who thinks ‘emotional intelligence’ is a red flag” kind of death.

My palms are already sweaty. I hate that. They weren’t sweaty two minutes ago, but now they are. Now that I’m being cattle-herded into forced eye contact with strangers while some pink-blazered asshole peddles the illusion of romance like he’s hosting a goddamn cruise ship game night.

I glance around and it’s a fucking zoo. There’s the Type-A power woman in a blazer sharper than my razors. There’s the yoga chick wearing beads and humming some kind of internal mantra. There’s a woman who looks like she’d gut me if I said the wrong kind of joke. And somewhere in this sea of curated faces, fake smiles, and hopeful lip gloss, I’m supposed to sell myself in five goddamn minutes like I’m a fucking used sedan with good mileage and no emotional baggage.

Spoiler alert: the baggage is there. It’s just neatly folded and stashed behind a tight grin and a line about how “I like to bake in my spare time.”

Five minutes. That’s what they give you. Five fucking minutes to prove you’re not a creep, a loser, a manchild, or a serial killer. Five minutes to make her laugh, sound interesting, be vulnerable without bleeding out on the table, and maybe, just maybe, make her want to see you again.

And then? Ding. Next.

Like speed rejection. Rapid fire heartbreak. It’s a fucking blender for the soul and I signed up willingly. What does that say about me? I’ve been through enough dating bullshit that a literal organized schedule of humiliation now seems like a viable strategy.

God, I hate this. I hate all of it. I hate the stupid overhead lighting, the nametags curling at the corners, the guy next to me checking his breath into his hand every five seconds, and the smell of someone’s cologne that’s making my eyes water. I hate that I’m trying. Still trying. After everything.

And worst of all?

I hate the sliver of hope that hasn’t died yet. That stubborn little bastard, clinging to the inside of my ribs like a tick, whispering maybe this time like it’s not dragging me into the fucking woodchipper again.

I straighten my tie. Again. Sixth time now, at least. It’s starting to feel more like a nervous tic than grooming. Maybe I’ll rip the fucking thing off halfway through and use it to hang myself in the coat closet.

Pink Blazer’s still monologuing like we’re at some spiritual summit for the chronically single. “Open hearts, real connections, magic in the air,” blah blah blah. If he says “journey” again, I’m gonna bite down on this flimsy plastic wine cup like it’s a cyanide capsule and end my suffering right here, surrounded by folding chairs and desperation.

“Remember people,” he bellows, all faux-enthusiasm and teeth that were definitely whitened with a Groupon, “when you hear the ding, ladies will stand and move, guys stay put and wait for the next!”

Yes, thank you. We understand basic instructions. We aren’t goldfish. We’re just emotionally decaying inside.

“If you connected with someone,” he continues, oblivious to my growing internal homicide, “exchange your cards… and good luck!”

Ding.

And now comes the bloodbath.

First woman sits down. She’s got librarian glasses and a precision-cut bob that could probably slice drywall. Sharp cheekbones, a blazer two sizes too tight, and an energy that screams “diagnosed but not treated.”

“Hello,” she purrs, leaning slightly forward, voice syrupy in a way that should not belong in this overly lit fucking conference room. Her smile is just a bit too wide, like she rehearsed it in the mirror with a knife in her hand.

“Hi,” I say, blinking. Did I just wander into a porno setup or a police interrogation?

She fixes her glasses with two fingers—slowly. Seductively. I think. Or maybe she just has an eye twitch. It’s hard to tell.

“Are you,” she says, licking her bottom lip like she saw it in a music video once, “into bad… bad girls?”

Jesus fucking Christ.

I make a noise. Some kind of strangled grunt of confusion. I think it was supposed to be a laugh but it came out like I was choking on regret.

Before I can even respond—ding.

Saved by the fucking bell.

She stands up with a little too much grace, like she floats off to do this to the next poor bastard down the row, and the next woman drops into the seat like she’s been shot out of a cannon.

No hello. No eye contact. Just:

“Do you believe in aliens?”

I blink.

She’s in full camo. Cargo vest, combat boots, dog tags that I suspect aren’t actually military. Her left wrist is covered in paracord bracelets. She leans in, serious. Too serious.

“I think the government is hiding shit under Denver airport,” she whispers, “and I don’t trust birds.”

“What?”

“They’re watching us. Birds. Cameras. Wake up, sheeple.”

Ding.

Next.

A woman in leopard print and five-inch heels slides into the seat like she’s auditioning for Real Housewives of Somewhere Psychotic. She’s got rhinestones around her eyes. Literal rhinestones.

“Hi babe,” she drawls, dragging out the word like we’ve been married ten years and she’s about to key my car. “Let me ask you something real important—what’s your sign?”

I hesitate.

“Virgo.”

“Oh hell no,” she says, pulling out her phone and typing aggressively. “That’s a fucking red flag. My therapist warned me.”

She doesn’t even make it the full five minutes. Stands up, muttering “fucking Virgo” like I keyed her car, and stomps off in her stripper hooves.

Ding.

Next.

A woman with glitter on her eyebrows sits down. I don’t mean makeup. I mean actual glitter. Her entire fucking forehead sparkles like she headbutted a kindergarten craft table. She smells like incense and low-level arson.

“You look like a Mark,” she says.

“I am a Mark.”

“I knew it,” she says, eyes wide, wild. “I’m a seer.”

I try not to visibly recoil. “A seer?”

“I read auras. Yours is screaming.”

“Screaming?”

“Like—aaahhhhhh.” She does the sound. Full-volume.

I drink my wine. All of it. Plastic cup and all.

Ding.

Next.

A woman dressed like a Disney villain sits down. I don’t even mean that metaphorically. She’s in all black, velvet, with purple eyeshadow that looks like it was applied in war paint strokes. She sets a crystal on the table between us like we’re about to duel for my soul.

“I hexed my last boyfriend,” she says without prompting.

I don’t blink.

“How’d that go?”

“He has IBS now.”

Ding.

Next.

And this? This is only one round. I’ve got forty-nine more of these. My hope is dying. My soul is curling up like wet paper. And Pink Blazer’s still smiling like a fucking snake oil preacher high on his own Kool-Aid.

But I sit there, tie a little looser, heart slightly cracked, sipping what’s left of the wine that tastes like floor cleaner and broken dreams.

Because what the fuck else am I going to do?

Go home?

Fuck no.

I paid twenty bucks for this. Real, non-refundable, straight-off-my-credit-card twenty. That’s a whole dozen muffins and a decent latte down the drain. I’m not leaving this hellish meat market until I’ve gotten my full ration of rejection. Every. Last. Glorious. Ding.

About thirty rounds in now. Thirty identical five-minute exercises in emotional waterboarding. My contact cards? Still a pristine, untouched stack of fifty, just like when I walked in. Haven’t handed out a single one. They sit there smugly, judging me from the corner of the table like little square reminders of my rapidly decaying self-worth.

Hope’s not even dying anymore—it’s being disemboweled. Stripped down, gutted, organs hung out to dry. I’m holding on purely out of spite and caffeine.

Ding.

Next one steps up.

And—holy shit.

Okay.

Okay.

She’s pretty. Like, actually pretty. Not in the Instagram-filtered, botox-battlefield way. No, this is old-school, naturally-blonde, probably-surfed-in-high-school kind of pretty. There’s highlights in her hair that don’t look like they were done in a salon called Vicious Blonde, and her makeup is normal. Blessedly, reasonably normal. Like she knows what blush is and how to not weaponize it.

She’s wearing this wrap dress—moss green, soft fabric, hugs the curves just right. That deep vee of neckline that shows off a frankly amazing rack. And yeah, sue me, I noticed. My eyes are connected to my brain and my brain screamed holy shit the moment she sat down. There’s cleavage. It’s tasteful but there, and I’m a simple man. Great figure. Healthy, not starving herself, thighs that look like they’ve crushed dreams.

Looks about thirty. Confident. Settled. Not vibrating with chaotic pigeon energy like the last twelve.

She sits. Calm. Poised.

“Hi,” she says, simple, clean, no cult undertones, no immediate sexual propositions, no unsolicited conspiracy theories about avian surveillance.

It’s so goddamn normal I want to cry.

“Hi,” I reply, and my voice cracks a little from disuse. “I’m Mark.”

She smiles, small, polite, dimples that don’t look like they were injected with filler. “Ellie. Nice to meet you.”

Nice voice. Low-ish. Like the kind of woman who doesn’t squeal at brunch, who probably reads actual books, who maybe wouldn’t run if I said I cried during Marley & Me.

She leans slightly forward. “How’s the night so far?”

How is the night? How is the fucking night?

Do I tell her I’ve spent the last two hours being hit on by a human horoscopes feed, a conspiracy theorist, a woman who hexed her ex, and at least one probable succubus? That I’ve been asked if I want to get choked, pegged, recruited into a pyramid scheme, and baptized in lavender oil? That I’m mentally clinging to the phrase “I want a girlfriend” like it’s the last line of a dying prayer?

I smile instead. Tight. Tired.

“It’s been a journey.”

Her eyebrow lifts, playful. “Oh god. That bad?”

“I’ve seen things,” I say, reaching for my water like a shell-shocked war vet. “Terrible things. Women with glitter on their foreheads. One asked if I wanted to ‘eat pain.’ I think that was a metaphor but I’m not entirely sure.”

She laughs. And not a polite chuckle either—an actual, shoulders-shaking, snort-laced laugh that makes my heart thump like maybe, maybe, someone sane has finally arrived.

“God, that’s incredible,” she says. “I had a guy earlier who said he wants a ‘bride with birthing hips and a sword collection.’”

“Please tell me you stabbed him with a fork.”

“No. But I wrote ‘see you in hell’ on his contact card.”

Okay, now I’m smiling for real. She’s clever. Sharp. Gorgeous. And not trying to cleanse my aura or seduce me using only interpretive eye contact.

And for the first time in this entire godforsaken carnival of madness, I sit back in my chair, shoulders a little looser, breath coming a bit easier.

Maybe it’s nothing.

Or maybe—just maybe—the goddamn universe, after dragging me through thirty rounds of psychological warfare, humiliation, and at least one genuine cult recruitment attempt, finally decided to throw me a fucking bone. Not out of mercy, of course, but probably just to fuck with me. Dangle something good in front of me like, “Here, you emotionally starved bastard—let’s see if you choke on this too.”

I take the bait anyway.

“So,” I say, tipping my plastic cup her way like we’re two regulars in a dive bar instead of victims in a singles cattle auction. “What brought you to the desperate pool?”

She grins—wry, self-aware, fucking real—and shrugs, fingers tracing the rim of her own cup. Her nails are short, painted dark green to match her dress. No gems. No glitter. No talismans. Just a solid, confident woman who looks like she pays her bills on time and doesn’t believe in retrograde anything.

“Oh, I think I’m too old school,” she says, and I swear to God, my fucking heart does a little pirouette.

“Jesus,” I mutter. “Careful. That almost sounded sane.”

She laughs again, eyes crinkling at the corners, and I want to bottle the sound like it’s the antidote to every goddamn TikTok dating coach.

“I just don’t do well with the apps,” she goes on. “It’s all so... fake. Everyone’s selling a version of themselves that doesn’t exist. The whole, ‘should I text now or wait two business days?’ bullshit. What the hell is that? Am I trying to date a person or file taxes?”

“Oh my God, thank you,” I say, a little louder than intended. “If I get ghosted one more time after a ‘great conversation,’ I’m going to start sending fucking invoices.”

She smirks. “For emotional labor?”

“For wasted time, serotonin, and the dignity I sacrificed trying to make small talk about hiking. I don’t hike, Ellie. I walk aggressively in Target aisles. That’s it.”

She barks out a laugh, head tilting back, hand brushing her collarbone—and I catch another glimpse of that beautiful, evil, heart-stopping cleavage that has absolutely no right to exist in this aggressively-lit Best Western conference room.

“You’re funny,” she says, a little surprised.

“Thanks,” I reply. “It’s mostly trauma.”

“Isn’t it always?” she says, raising her cup in mock salute. “To mutual trauma.”

We clink our shitty plastic cups together like it’s champagne and not lukewarm Pinot Grigio with the flavor profile of regret and aluminum.

And for the first time in weeks, months, maybe years, I feel like I’m talking to someone who gets it. Someone who didn’t show up looking to be worshipped, or fixed, or feared. Someone who’s just fucking here, present, honest, and maybe—just maybe—on the same cursed little sinking lifeboat as me.

I don’t know where this is going. I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again. But right now, under fluorescent lights and the stench of too much Axe body spray, I’m not thinking about failure or loneliness or the slow, humiliating collapse of modern romance.

I’m just thinking:

Finally.

Ding.

Oh shit.

The sound is cruel this time. It doesn’t just signal the end of a round—it’s the screeching rip of something tender and good being torn out of reach. I feel it in my spine. The Pavlovian chime that tells me move along, loser, time’s up, dream over.

She glances at the clock, then back at me, a little too fast. Her mouth opens, hesitates. Her fingers fiddle with the edge of something tucked in her purse. And then she does it—half a breath in, a nervous smile, the kind that lifts just one side of her lips like she’s not sure if she should be doing this.

“Hey… uhm,” she says, stumbling over the first syllable like it caught her off guard. “If you’re interested… uhm this is, uh—my contact thing.”

She stammered.

She fucking stammered.

Not some put-on flirty act, not rehearsed coquettish bullshit. An actual, genuine hiccup in speech. Unplanned. Honest. Fucking cute. It hits me dead in the chest—this perfect contrast to the last thirty speed demons who spoke like job interviewers or cult leaders. She’s flushed slightly, trying to laugh it off, and it makes me want to reach across the table and just—hold her hand. Or kiss her. Or tell her that it’s okay. That she doesn’t have to be smooth or perfect because fuck, she already hit the jackpot just by being real.

She slides the card across the table, fingers brushing the edge like it might burn her if she holds on a second longer.

Elle Whitaker.

Phone number. That’s it.

No LinkedIn title. No list of hobbies formatted like a dating résumé. No cutesy quote in italics trying to hint at a “fun side.” Just a name and a number. Direct. Confident. Quietly intimate. It’s like she said this is me without saying a word.

Elle.

Even the name has a softness to it. Elle. One syllable. Elegant. Understated. Like someone who’s probably worn a cashmere sweater while drinking whiskey neat and crying over a book.

I pick up the card carefully, like it might fall apart if I breathe too hard. It’s printed on thick matte stock—subtle, professional, no shine, no frills. Just quality. Everything about it says I’m not here to play games. I’m here if you are.

“Thanks,” I murmur, and it comes out a little rough, like my throat’s still recovering from every emotionally dead-eyed interaction I’ve had tonight.

She smiles again, soft and embarrassed and fucking gorgeous, then stands with a little nod, giving me this last flick of a glance that feels almost bashful. Like she’s surprised she actually did it. Gave me her card. Chose me.

Then she’s gone. Walking off into the next circle of Hell, leaving behind her scent—something warm and clean and faintly woodsy, like citrus and cedar and the kind of intimacy that happens with the lights still on.

I sit there for a beat too long. Everyone else is already shifting, standing, preparing for the next round of existential pain, but I’m still holding her name in my hand like it’s a fucking life raft. Elle Whitaker. It feels like a spell.

I slide the card into my wallet. Not the back pocket. Not my jacket. Wallet. Right next to my license. Like it matters.

Because it does.

And for once, I don’t dread the next ding.

Because Elle exists.

And she might—just maybe—give a damn whether I text her tomorrow. Or tonight. Or in two business days.

Fuck business days. I’m texting her the second I get home.