Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 129131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 646(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 646(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
What I find isn’t crazy, though.
The list of likes and dislikes sounds reasonable. Doesn’t everyone loathe toast crumbs in their butter but love the sound of birds chirping? Well, I mean I guess I do. I can’t recall that I’ve sat around and listened to birds specifically, but the idea of birdsong is . . . pleasant enough, I suppose. And also, that’s two times already that she’s mentioned breadcrumbs. Is she that messy? Or does she have an Italian-level love of bread?
Her hobbies are photography, volunteering, and making the world a better place. That’s a bit scary, if I’m honest. I could argue that I’m trying to make the world a better place by creating a way for people to meet and find their soulmate, but I suspect Rachel means something much different. Is she protesting nuclear war on weekends or volunteering at food banks? Either way, it feels comparatively grander than app creation.
But still not crazy.
What are you looking for? I scroll down to this section of the profile, interested to see what she filled in. I’d like to have a real connection with someone, deeper than appearances or preconceived notions. Someone serious enough to share their true self with me but fun enough to enjoy the gift of the 86,400 seconds we get each day.
Wow. That’s both profound and exciting. She’s not who I expected to find on the app, and definitely not who I expected the AI to match me with. She seems bright and witty, brave and altruistic.
But I didn’t come here for this. I’m only doing research to improve the app, not actually date anyone. With a resigned sigh, I click back into her message, pasting my thanks-but-no-thanks message. I pause, my finger over the Send button.
You don’t have time for this, Noah. Eye on the prize. BlindDate. Making it better.
I imagine walking into Elisa’s office next month with better numbers, higher usages, and improved stats. And I click Send.
A moment later, a green dot appears beside her name. Rachel is on the app right now, likely reading my message. A knot forms in my stomach, and I stare at the screen, wondering if she’ll message back.
R: Was it the snoring? It was the snoring, wasn’t it? I thought that might be TMI for a first contact. LOL No worries, Mark. Have a great day filled with sunshine and awesome-sauce. I hope you find your perfect match.
The knot tightens, my brows knitting together. Why is her agreement with my dismissal so . . . ? Ugh. I don’t even know how to describe what I’m feeling, I just know I don’t like it. I stare at the words ‘perfect match’ through narrowed eyes.
Ninety-six percent is ridiculously high. What if the AI got it right? I could be passing over my soulmate. Not that I believe in those, but I don’t necessarily not believe, either. I haven’t given it much thought one way or the other because I’ve been too busy chasing goals and dreams of my own, with FriendZone and now BlindDate.
But meeting Rachel might be a good thing. If she is my perfect match, all the work of weeding out has been done for me by the AI and I can go into the relationship with some hint of success. If she’s not my perfect match and the AI messed up, I need to know that to improve BlindDate. It’s a win-win.
Before I can second-guess myself again, I type out another message.
Me: Is it too late to change my mind? Got a little overwhelmed with responses this morning and I think the 96% got to me. I’m sorry. Can we start over?
I hit Send before I can tweak and rewrite the message. It’s the truth, as ugly as it might be and as weak as it paints me.
R: Truthfully, I was terrified of sending that message last night. I almost threw up my wine, cheese, and chocolate dinner. I don’t know if that menu makes me sound fancy or pitiful, but at least I kept it down because I was so busy yesterday, it was all I ate. Anyway, we can absolutely try again. And no pressure on the 96% unless you snore. That’s a deal-breaker for me. Only one diesel-powered chainsaw allowed in my bed at a time. PS—how many responses did you get?
I laugh. Out of my flip-flopping back and forth like a fish out of water, which might be a little too close to home considering my lack of a dating life, my overwhelming response is what she keys on to?
Me: Thirty-two! Unless you count the one that was looking for fans for her private page. If so, thirty-one. Are you competitive? Want to compare numbers?
R: Dangerous question, mister.