“Now you’re making me sound like an asshole,” I joke. “Fine, walk me through it,” I tell her, admitting defeat because I know when I’ve lost.
Raffy hears one of the few words he knows—walk—and goes crazy, jumping around and howling. He runs toward the door, looking at his leash hanging from a hook on the wall as if he needs to show me where it is. Then he runs back to me, nudging at my knee and barking directly at me. You said it, now get up and let’s goooo! Walk, walk, walk, we’re going on a walk.
“Raffy, I didn’t mean us, you silly dog. I was talking to Auntie Arielle.” I grab ahold of him, pulling him into my lap and rubbing his belly in apology. Within a few seconds, his mind has gone blank, his tongue lolling out in belly rub bliss. If only humans were that easy, the world would be a better place. “Crisis averted, but let’s get this over with.”
“There’s the spirit,” Eli says dryly.
“Okay, let’s see here . . .” Arielle picks up my tablet from the table beside her. “First you. We’ll make a trash email account and give you an anonymous name. Preferences on that? You’re going to have explain it if you actually meet someone.”
I think for a moment. “Rachel.” It’s my mother’s name and popped into my head as similar enough to Riley that I can explain it away. Arielle clicks around a bit on the tablet.
“We’ll input all the information you want the robot matchmaker to know, physical attributes, your likes, hobbies and dislikes, and then what you want in your ideal man.”
"Robot matchmaker?” I say beneath furrowed brows.
“Artificial intelligence, algorithm, robot matchmaker . . . same things.” Arielle waves a hand dismissively.
“And this robot does what with all this information?” I really need to ask River about his work more often.
“Matches you up with possible contenders. Just make sure to bring your I.D. to meet your guy so authorities can identify your body when your date ends up going south,” Arielle jokes.
“Arielle!” I protest, waving my glass at her and dangerously coming close to sloshing wine out on the tablet. “We’re not even two minutes in and you’re already giving me cold feet!”
“She’s kidding. Relax!” Eli tells me. “Besides, if you do connect with someone and want to meet them, make the first meeting at a public place like a bookstore or coffee shop before going on an official date for obvious safety reasons. And no dicking on the first date. Not because it’s slutty but because you don’t want some dude knowing where you live, and you definitely don’t want to go to his place and end up in his dungeon of pain and pleasure. I should know. There was this one time—”
“Not helping,” Arielle says out of the side of her mouth, and Eli shrugs, going back in for another sausage and following it up with a slice of cheese.
I sit back, processing everything. As skeptical as I am, I can’t really find any downsides to at least trying this thing out. I mean, sure, it might match me up with Freddy Krueger and ruin my dreams for the foreseeable future or a cult leader who wants me to join him in some Stepford Wives situation. But on the other hand, I could meet Mr. Right. Or Mr. Right Now.
The biggest downside I can think of is the potential time I could end up wasting. And it’s not like I don’t waste time flipping through other people’s silly dance videos, cute dog memes, and style vlogs from countries I’ve never been to. So what’s a few more wasted minutes?
If that happens, I’ll just delete the app and forget about it and move on. There’s a tiny part of me, the part that yearns for romance, that at least wants to give it a try to see what pans out.
“Okay!” I say finally, feeling a little thrill of hope. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more!”
Arielle smiles, and before I can change my mind, she loads the sign-up form on the tablet screen.
We go through the next few steps, filling out my age, height, eye color, my favorite hobbies, and likes and dislikes, until we get to the real important stuff.
“Okay, how would you like him to look physically?” she asks, looking up at me.
“Hmm,” I say, raising my eyes to the ceiling. “You know me, I love a tall man. I guess at least six feet?”
Eli laughs, drawing both Arielle’s and my attention. “Every guy from five-nine on says they’re six feet because women have this height obsession, like five-eleven is so much shorter than six feet even. We all know it’s only because you think dick size is related to height. Newsflash, that’s not always true. I’ve seen dudes who are five-five in boots with dicks the size of my arm, and big, burly six-five guys who wish they were as big as that sausage.” He lifts his chin toward the last tiny sausage on the charcuterie board, making Arielle and me frown.