Matched

She thinks he's a jerk and is being nice, for Marina's sake. I'm certain of it. How could she think anything different?

India has often made fun of hipsters when we've seen them wearing their thick beards, their fancy moustaches, their man buns, their lumberjack shirts and prayer beads. She scoffs at all pretense, preferring honesty over artifice. Realism over idealism.

Man Bun is another bust on the old dating-app score sheet.

Marina brings Heather over and introduces us, then leaves the two of us alone. I shake her hand; she's impeccably manicured, her nails long and lacquered. Her hair is something else. It looks like she just stepped out of a steam room, all crimped and fluffy. Like unraveled yarn. Rainbow yarn. That's what it looks like to me.

"So nice to meet you," she says in a heavy Valley Girl accent, her words rising at the end. It grates on my nerves. "Marina says you're a perfect match for me." She looks me up and down, her eyes widening like she approves. "She's right in the looks department. Has anyone ever told you that you look like a younger Ragnar? She says you surf, too. I don't surf, but I love the beach. Maybe we could go some time. She says you have a place down south. Maybe you could teach me to surf. I spend all day in a beauty salon, breathing in hair color. I could use the fresh air. Marina said…"

The rest of the next hour is spent with me nodding and offering one-word answers to Heather as she breathlessly opines on everything from the latest blockbuster superhero movie to the election and the price of apartment rentals in the city. I encourage her, not really wanting to talk about myself, and she only seems interested in what kind of car I drive, where my apartment is located, and what kind of investments I have.

She's not bad, as people go. She's not the brightest star in the heavens, but she's not mean or rude. She's just really enthusiastic about everything. And none of it interests me in the least.

I honestly don't care about one word that comes out of her perfectly painted mouth. I can't even muster up the interest in what those lips might do when around my cock. Instead, I glance at India while Heather's talking about hair color and how intricate it is. I see that Man Bun is leaning in close to her and now he's pulling on a strand of her hair. She looks all coy, like she's eating this up.

She likes him?

What the fuck?

I turn back to Heather, who's telling me about semi-permanent and permanent dyes and how colors have to be developed, and a bunch of other stuff I should be paying attention to if I want to seduce her.

But I don't.

At that moment, I don't want to fuck her. Her melon breasts are far too perfect. I suspect that if she jumped up and down, they wouldn't move an inch. They're so obviously false and as a result, totally unappealing to me. Other men may like falsies. There's no accounting for taste. Only the very best augmentations are appealing. I've seen and felt a number in my time. I prefer a real breast, even if it isn't large.

Heather takes a break from telling me about the market for beauticians, and begins to ask me questions.

"Marina tells me you own a satellite company. Do you do communications satellites? Like AT&T?"

"No," I reply, wondering if there's anything upstairs in that bubble head of hers. "Military."

"Oh," she says, her eyes wide. "Like spy satellites?"

I smile to myself. "Something like that."

"Cool," she says. "Marina says you're a Ranger.”

"Former Ranger," I say with a nod and mumble something about my time in the Army and my work as a Ranger. She seems even more appreciative as I regale her with a story about my last deployment, how we survived an IED and were held down in an ambush by a group of ISIS insurgents.

She rubs my arm appreciatively, really laying on the admiration. She moves closer to me, and although I could easily take her home with me tonight because she's clearly into it, and into me, I want to escape and go home, have a shower, and watch the news before hitting the rack for some solid shuteye.

"Excuse me," I say, and make an excuse about using the men's room. In reality, I want to make a quick escape. I glance around but can't find India – she's gone somewhere and I hope to hell it isn’t home with Man Bun, because I would think a whole lot less of her if so. The main floor bathroom is taken, so I take the stairs t

o the second floor. It's in use as well so I wait in the hallway.

When the door opens, it's India. She's surprised to see me and stops short.

"Oh, it's you."

"Yep," I reply. "Feast your eyes on me."

She laughs lightly, her eyes crinkling in that way that I love. "You're a sight for sore eyes, that's for sure."

"No man bun to be found," I quip, grinning. "Not that there's anything wrong with that."

She laughs out loud at that and holds her hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry," she says, barely able to talk. "He actually invited me back to his place for a full-body coconut oil massage and hot rock experience."

"No way," I reply, amazed at the man's tin ear. "You turned him down?"