The Blind Date

“Every other app out there talks about love, but the very first thing people see is a photo. Lust, not love. And our research showed that even for people who were supposedly looking for love, they’d click yes or no within ten seconds based primarily on the profile picture. BlindDate gets rid of the profile picture. Instead, using the survey, the AI searches through the database and finds you matches that you can scroll through at your leisure. But since you have to take a few moments and actually read someone’s information, you have to get to know them. And we encourage the users to talk before meeting. We want them to get to know one another.”

“That weeds out the superficial hookup seekers,” River adds, “and studies show that attractiveness is rated higher when a person has an emotional connection to someone already established.” Elisa’s eyes glaze over, and I glare at River. He takes a big breath and tries again. “The funny guy becomes cuter because he can make his girl laugh, and the shy woman is more attractive once she shows how sweet and kind she is.”

At that, Elisa nods. “I do like a man who can make me laugh.” Elisa Montgomery has been single since her husband died twenty years ago, and judging by the utter lack of lines on her face, she hasn’t laughed since.

Maybe she should do the BlindDate questionnaire? I think to myself, never dreaming of suggesting it aloud. “Exactly,” I say instead. “We’ll continue working on increasing memberships, tweaking the AI so matches are even more accurate now that we have a larger sampling, and ensuring that no bugs arise with widespread usage.” I’m making promises to Elisa that I’ve already made to myself a dozen times—more, better, push, succeed.

Lady Elisa gives me a supportive look. “Noah, the app’s making money and growing. I’m satisfied with the current launch.”

Satisfied? That’s not nearly enough, not remotely the description I want from Elisa.

“All in all, good job. Let’s talk about it next month. In the meantime, please excuse me. I have a lunch meeting, and if I’m not out the door in thirty seconds, Tina will be nipping at my heels,” she says good-naturedly.

It’s a polite but clear dismissal, and Riv and I retreat, resisting the urge as I always do to bow at the door as I depart.

Back in River’s office, I jump in with the plan for our next steps.

“So, we need to go over these numbers again, figure out how to get more people to join,” I tell him as Riv sits down at his desk, leaning back and propping his feet on its surface.

He’s chill, fine even after that clusterfuck of a meeting. Too fine, in my opinion, and I let him know that by knocking his feet to the floor. His chair wobbles back and forth, but like a Weeble, he doesn’t fall over, unfortunately. “Chill out. The numbers are good. Lady Elisa was fine with them. Take the win.”

“That wasn’t a win!” River doesn’t get it, my need to compete and to win. My need to succeed.

He didn’t come from where I came from, and while he knows the facts, he doesn’t understand the reality of my past. I don’t think anyone who hasn’t lived through it can.

“Dude, hitting target is literally the definition of a win,” Riv counters. “Just because you wanted to be bigger than Zuckerberg at this point doesn’t mean it’s reasonable. And not everyone has to live up to your crazy-high expectations.”

“Go fuck yourself,” I growl, and Riv reaches down, cupping himself and pretending to jack off.

“Like this? That’s the only kind of action you’re getting these days.” Once he speaks the insult, his look becomes thoughtful. “Maybe that’s the problem. Hit Tinder and get laid, and then you’ll feel better about what we’re doing here with BD.”

I shake my head as I sigh and throw my hands in the air. “Pussy’s not the solution to every problem.”

Riv snorts, pointing an accusing finger my way. “You didn’t even believe that as it was coming off your tongue.”

“I don’t need to get laid. It hasn’t been that long. Now can we focus on what to do?” But trying to get him to focus on something other than my sex life right now is impossible. It’d be easier to take a pb-and-j sandwich from a rabid, starving raccoon.

He hits me with question after question, all coming down to one thing. Exactly how long? I don’t answer, throwing back statistics about the problem at hand, and finally, he begrudgingly gives in, though I know he’ll bring it up again the next chance he gets.

“Fine, what do you propose we do to make the already-good numbers live up to your magical, mythical, and might I mention, self-set, goals?” River asks.