the misfortune of knowing you // h.s. au

the misfortune of knowing you

ONE

"The more I know of the world, the more I am convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much!" - Sense and Sensibility

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman in want of a boyfriend must spend her Friday evenings lying in bed in her trashiest sweats, eating popcorn that went cold half an hour ago and swiping left.

"Wait!" Roan's hand dashes out, grabbing my phone away from me. "That one was cute. How do I go back? Shit, you swipe so fast!"

"That's because they all suck. I don't need more than half a second to identify the left swipe." Curled up against my pillows, I hold my hand out for Roan's phone. "Give me yours if you're going to swipe on mine."

Roan obliges, sliding her phone into my grasp without looking up from my screen. I watch as she swipes left on a lumberjack beard with a wrinkle of her nose. We never take swiping very seriously, so I have no problem entrusting her with my phone. The pool of single men on dating apps is in no way the cream of the crop; there are too many shirtless gym selfies and "look at this fish I caught!" pics to ever hope that we'll find the love of our lives here.

But we keep on swiping. I've begun to suspect that Roan and I are keeping Tinder in business with all of our evenings in. We swipe and swipe and swipe, and rarely do either of us actually go on a date.

Little do I know that that is about to change.

"Hmm." I pause, my thumb hovering over the red X. The guy on the screen has a nice display picture, cute smile, nice shirt, no sunglasses. Either a girl consulted on his picture choices, or he ha a natural instinct for this thing. The first option is either endearing or means he's desperate (there was no way to tell which without further investigation), and the second means he probably looks at swiping as something of a sport.

"Something promising?" Roan asks, leaning over my shoulder. "Oh, he's cute."

I agree, nodding at the second picture, where the guy's baby blues are on clear display. "Nice eyes." But I still can't tell which of the aforementioned camps he falls into, so I swipe to the next picture. Sunglasses, and they are working for him.

"What's the bio say?"

I tilt the screen toward Roan so she can get a better look: Does Lightning McQueen have car insurance or life insurance? A kid told me that joke, but I think it's pretty funny so I saved it for you.

"Hmm." Roan frowns. "That's not a lot of info. He could be a serial killer."

I slide to the next photo. On a beach, beer in hand, shirt on but unbuttoned. His sister definitely advised his profile. "He doesn't look like a serial killer."

"That's what they said about Ted Bundy."

"No, it isn't." I roll my eyes, suddenly determined to swipe right on this one. Roan's last few dates have been horrible, and she deserves a win. Or at least a fun night out—and this guy looks like he could provide that.

"Yes, it literally is," Roan says, her eyes still glued to the screen. "Zac Efron is playing him in a movie."

"Well, this guy doesn't look like Zac Efron. I'm swiping right."

"Wait!" The tone of Roan's voice is sharp enough to make me pause. "What's his name?"

I squint at the screen. "Niall."

"Niall," Roan echoes. "Decent enough name. Proceed."

I slide my thumb across the screen, the phone buzzing satisfactorily in my hand almost instantly. "You matched."