Cupid's Aim

“... My hobbies? Oh, I’d rather not talk about those, if you don’t mind.”

Iris’ date stares at her with apprehension, as if she is an erratic raccoon who might lunge across the table at him. They’re sitting on pink, poofy cushions sipping boozy hot cocoa. A flickering candle between them illuminates the handmade doily hearts strewn around.

“Alright. We can talk about something else I guess. What do you do?” Iris asks the guy. Is his name Brady? Brent? She has no clue.

The work question is one she has been hoping not to ask tonight. It's so overused in Washington, DC. Plus she’d rather not have to get into her own job situation.

“Like, for a living? Hmm … let’s not discuss that either,” Brady/Brent says.

He wipes his nose on his drooping sweatshirt sleeve, drawing the hood tightly around his goateed face.

Iris isn’t sure whether to laugh or scream. She takes a steady breath and twists a dark curl around her index finger, considering her next move.

“Okay. Well, what do you want to talk about, then?”

Brady/Brent slowly lowers his hood.

“Archery.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Twenty seconds later, Iris seriously ponders diving out of the bathroom window. Archery. Archery? Who does this man think he is, freaking Legolas? (And what is archery if not … ahem … a hobby?)

Fuming, she reminds herself how she got here, to a speed dating event at Florentina’s Cocktail Lounge on (barf) Valentine’s Day.

She just hasn’t really prioritized dating. She’s been so busy with work. That’s what she’s been telling everyone. And it’s true!

Sure, she’s been on some Hinge dates lately, but they start to blur together.

The places: brunch at Shaw’s Tavern, coffee at Big Bear, the occasional night out dancing at Showtime.

The questions: Where do you work? Where are you from? Where did you go to school? If you were an ice cream flavor, which one would you be?

The men: consultants (lots), Important People Who Work on The Hill (lots), a zookeeper, a choir director.

The props: loafers, khakis, baseball caps with sports team logos, baseball caps with ironic phrases, a top hat.

And then, five months and three days ago (but who’s counting?) Iris lost her job at a strategic communications firm, forcing her to consider what all of those extra hours spent in her cubicle had been for. She had done everything right. She had worked so tirelessly to get that seemingly inevitable promotion to senior manager. And then it was all taken away.

Her company had been optimistic about AI tools, encouraging Iris’ entire team to spend a few hours each week brainstorming “fresh, innovative ways to harness the power of AI and unlock exciting new possibilities.” There had even been a series of brown-bag lunches in which teams presented their ideas to senior management, who furiously took notes.

A few weeks later came the first round of personnel reductions.

“I’ve been laid off, but what I really need is to get laid,” Iris quipped at a happy hour the day she received that shattering email.

“Hey, I might not be able to help much with the whole job situation, but I’ll be the best wing woman you’ve ever had!” promised her friend Steph.

A couple of gin and tonics deep, they giggled and clinked glasses.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Which brings us to this sickeningly rose-colored lounge filled with desperate singles. It is all Steph’s fault, blissfully married Steph who is eating a sumptuous French meal with her wholesome husband while their toddler, Hank, runs wild with a babysitter.

This event is an absolute nightmare. Ten whole minutes to talk with each person, seven different people total. People whose profiles apparently reveal that they have something in common.

One man monologues about his job as a congressional staffer and doesn’t ask Iris a single question. One asks to look at her Strava account and sneers when he sees her biking speed. The other dates are fine, she supposes, just a bit dry. There isn’t that special spark.

Stepping out of the restroom, Iris scans the bar, hoping to avoid Brady/Brent, who may be looking for her after her quick escape. Fortunately, she catches a glimpse of him happily engaged in conversation with a woman in steampunk attire. His hood is still down; he looks relaxed. There’s a bit of whipped cream from his hot chocolate on his lower lip.

Could he be … is he laughing?

Iris feels utterly alone.

“What if you came home for a while, honey? Took a beat and regrouped?” Her mother in Michigan had proposed when Iris had called with news of the layoff.

But as much as Iris loves Grand Rapids, after more than a decade away, it just doesn’t feel like home anymore. DC is where her circle of friends is, where she hopes to find a life partner and “settle down.”

She’s not sure what her future will look like, but it sure as hell doesn’t include voluminous pink pillows and deep discussions of bows and arrows.

Grabbing her jacket and trying her best to ignore the Cupid figurine leering at her from behind the coat tree, she strides into the night.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Iris decides to walk the 1.6 miles home. Her mind is churning, and some brisk movement will do her some good.

As she crosses Georgia Avenue, one of those obnoxious scooters whizzes by, narrowly grazing her left side.

“Hey, watch where you’re going, you a—” she shouts, but stops as the scooter comes to a halt and topples over in slow motion. The rider, a tall man, stumbles a bit but manages to stay upright. Iris immediately feels guilty for letting her sour mood get the best of her. It’s obvious that this was an accident.

The man plants his feet firmly on the pavement and turns to her, dark eyes wide.

“I’m so sorry. My scooter totally went rogue.”

He’s breathing quickly, and Iris realizes that they’re quite close together, closer than strangers typically stand. He’s got a striking face with defined cheekbones and full lips. Iris feels a strange lurch in her navel.

“Hey, it’s alright. I was just surprised, that’s all. I’m kind of in my feelings tonight,” Iris says. “Are you okay, by the way?”

“Yeah, I’m just fine. And it’s completely my bad. I should have been paying more attention. I guess I’m in my feelings tonight, too. I was at a friend’s Valentine’s Day party and I was, like, the thirteenth wheel. I needed to get out of there fast. Anyway … I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this,” he says in an unnervingly baritone voice that seems to vibrate straight through Iris.

“Well, guess what? I just broke free from a hellish speed dating event,” Iris responds.

The handsome stranger raises an eyebrow, amused. For a moment they’re suspended in silence under the streetlights until he clears his throat.

“This is a bit … forward, but do you want to grab a drink? They’ve got great gin and tonics down the block,” he says.

Iris smiles. “That sounds wonderful.”