On occasion, I get to do some really fun projects, so when the dating app Hinge approached me, I was intrigued but also wondering how I could possibly be of use to them. I’ve never really used the dating apps though I am VERY good at helping friends zhuzh their profiles. I also enjoy watching them swipe this way or that as they consider potential romantic partners or sex play dates. Anyway!
Hinge had five writers write short fiction inspired by couples who met on Hinge—me, of course, and R.O. Kwon, Oisín McKenna, John Paul Brmmer, Isle McElroy, and Brontez Purnell. Like, WHOA!
The couple I worked with, Chanti and Najib, are young creative people (stylist and musician, respectively) who had to learn how to love one another while also pursuing their ambitions. They are a charming couple who talk about each other with real wisdom and warmth. I hope you enjoy a bit of their story!
1.
There he was, waiting and waiting and… waiting. Najib sighed and scrolled through his phone notifications. He was being stood up, Najib was certain. “Treacherous,” he thought, before laughing to himself. “These dating streets are treacherous.” He stretched his long legs before hooking his feet on the barstool’s footrest. Suddenly, his phone vibrated. Chanti’s name popped up. His chest tightened as he opened the message, and then he exhaled.
“OMG WORK,” she texted. “A photo shoot running long. So sorry! I will be there if you don’t mind waiting.”
“All good,” Najib replied and then he opened Hinge to study Chanti’s profile and remind himself of what he was waiting for. She was a hottie, that went without saying, but there was something about her eyes and her voice and how much she seemed to make the most of every single moment of every single day. He was either going to love all that energy or hate it.
“I’m always looking forward,” she said the first time they spoke on the phone. “And you?”
“Me,” he drawled, slowly. “So far, I’ve just been looking.”
2.
Loud David Bowie blared through the echoing space as the photographer shouted directions to her assistant. Chanti stood back from the model, went to a nearby table of accessories, and plucked three chunky bracelets and a scarf from the colorful array. She slid the bracelets on the model’s left wrist and wrapped the scarf around the right before stepping back to assess. She looked to the photographer. “What do we think?”
The photographer quickly looked the model up and down and nodded before lifting the camera to her face to see the model through the lens. As the photographer began shooting again, Chanti slid into the shadows, admiring her work. Every couple of minutes, she glanced at her phone, her throat tightening a bit. She was late, very late for a first date, and this photo shoot was never going to end. All day, the photographer had been… temperamental, at best. First, she wanted this, and then she wanted that, and then there was a problem with the lighting, and then the model had an issue with her back and wanted to go home, but the shoot had to be finished that day or else. This is the job, Chanti reminded herself. And, actually, she loved her job — the creativity of it exhilarated her. Even the chaos was invigorating, every day different, always meeting the most interesting people and helping them make the most of their beauty; the work gave her a sense of purpose and pride. And still, some days, loving her job was enough. Some days, it was not nearly enough.
3.
Najib was getting antsy. He wanted to be sharp, on top of his game, but he had been waiting nearly an hour. “I’m a patient man,” he thought. “I am a patient man. All good things come in good time.” He wasn’t the kind of guy who got riled up about the small things. If this date was meant to be, it would be. He started tapping his thumbs against the bar. He could do this, see this woman he had been talking to for a couple of weeks. And if there was nothing there, he could go home and forget all about the night.
Suddenly, the air shifted and the sound — the raucous music, the tinkling of glasses, the murmurs of conversation punctuated by peals of laughter — it all dulled into a quiet hum. Chanti stood to his side, smiling brightly, her hand extended. Najib stared down at it, then smiled and stood from the barstool where he was perched. He cracked his neck from side to side, then pulled her into a gentle hug. He closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the solid warmth of her body against his, and she did too. “It is good to be a patient man,” he thought. After a light squeeze, Najib pulled away. He gestured to the empty stool next to him and Chanti clambered up, taking a moment to situate herself and set her bulky purse on the bar. Najib motioned for the bartender, who wiped his hands with a bar towel.
“How can I help you, folks” the bartender asked.
Najib looked at Chanti again. “What will you be having?”
Chanti sighed, leaning on one elbow as she studied the chalkboards above the bar featuring the menu. “What do you recommend?” she asked the bartender.
“What do you like?”
She pulled the long braids cascading down her back to the side. “I could use something strong, not too fruity but still sweet, interesting.”
The bartender nodded and quickly proffered a glass, setting it on the rail before him. “I got you,” he said. “And you, my man, what will you be having?”
Najib made a flourish with his hand. “Whatever the lady is having.”
Chanti arched an eyebrow. “Are you adventurous?”
“I am today.”
A few moments later, the bartender set two tall pink drinks with a long rectangle ice cube bobbing gently, and a lime on the sugared rim. They reached for their glasses, clinked them together, and took tentative sips at the same time. Najib cocked his head to the left, paused, then nodded. Chanti took another sip. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s exactly what I want.”
4.
Later, after they settled their tab, Najib and Chanti stood outside the bar enjoying the warm Brooklyn night. Najib shifted from foot to foot, his skin tingling pleasantly. “I had a dope time tonight,” he said.
Chanti nodded. “A dope time. That’s exactly right. I love when the conversation just comes easy and we don’t have to sit, staring at each other through awkward silences. I’ve done that way too many times. And I’m sorry, again, for being so late. The day just got away from me…”
He reached for Chanti’s hand, holding it between both of his. “So long as you don’t get away from me, it’s all good.”
They leaned toward each other until their lips were almost touching. Chanti tilted her face upward and then leaned even further forward. Her skin tingled pleasantly, too.
“When can I see you again?” Chanti asked.
Najib shrugged. “Whenever you want,” he drawled.
5.
It was jazz night at the Roxy, and the place was crowded, loud. On stage, a quartet played from Miles Davis’s songbook. Najib and Chanti sat, cuddled up in a banquette. He nodded with the beat, tapping his leg as Chanti swayed from side to side.
“I’m definitely feeling this,” Chanti said.
Najib leaned against Chanti, then pressed his forehead against yours. “Guess what?”
“Mmmm… what?”
“I’m definitely feeling you, too,” Najib said.
Chanti gently grabbed Najib’s lower lip with her teeth. “Najib, are you saying we go together?”
He clasped her neck, pulling Chanti toward him. “Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
6.
The coffee cup Chanti was holding practically seared the soft skin of her palm. She winced as she walked. It was a beautiful evening, sun fading into stretches of red and purple. She took in the city, all of it — the honking horns, the bodega owner standing in front of his shop wiping his forehead with a towel as he smoked a cigarette, the trashcan at the corner, overflowing, and then, a bright shock of color caught her attention — a beautiful floral shop, bursting with roses and gladiolus and peonies and daisies and irises and more. It had been so long, too long really, since someone sent her flowers. She stopped in front of the stand and pulled a bouquet to her nose, inhaling deeply. The owner, a genial older man, came out and nodded toward the bouquet. “A beautiful woman deserves beautiful flowers.”
Chanti smiled, shyly. “I’d like to think so,” she said.
He took the bouquet from her, wrapping it in brown paper and tying a bow around it. Then he handed her the floors. “For you, my dear.”
Chanti’s eyes widened as she took the flowers. “How much do I owe you?”
The florist shook his head. “Your smile is all I could ever need.”
Chanti hugged the flowers to her chest. “You flatter me, and you’ve made my day. I won’t forget this.” As she continued making her way to the bar where she was meeting Najib, she felt a little lighter, a bounce in her step.
7.
Najib stared at the clock and straightened the keyboard on his desk. In ten minutes, he would get off work and the weekend would begin. He hummed to himself, a song he had been working on that wasn’t quite there yet, but with a little more work, it would be. To pass the time, Najib sent one last e-mail and straightened his workspace, and at six p.m. on the dot, he was up and out of his seat and then he was in the elevator and then he was walking to the subway to meet Chanti. He had lost count of how many dates they had been on, but he was having fun. Chanti was fun. They vibed, hard. They never ran out of things to talk about. They loved trying out new restaurants and bars. Tonight, in fact, they were going to check out the Carreau Club, a pétanque bar. He didn’t even know what pétanque was, but he was excited to find out.
Chanti was sitting at a picnic table in the bar when he arrived. In front of her were two beers and a bouquet of flowers wrapped in brown paper. As he sat, she pushed one of the beers toward him.
“Just what the doctor ordered, I hope.”
Najib took a long sip and grinned. “Exactly what I needed.” He pointed at the floors. “Are those for me?”
Chanti pulled the flowers a bit closer. “They’re for me, actually.”
There was a brief pause as they stared at each other. Najib tensed. “Who’s buying you flowers?”
“Does it matter?”
Najib squared his shoulders. “I mean, do you, but yeah, a brotha wants to know.”
Chanti laughed. “You can relax. I got these for myself. I love flowers. I love getting flowers.”
Najib’s shoulders lowered, and he started to look more like himself. “I feel you.”
To their left, the pétanque court. A handful of people stood at the edge holding small metal balls. They watched as people tossed balls onto the court, aiming for a small red ball or the other metal balls already sitting on the court.
Chanti shook her head. “I have no idea what they’re doing but I do know I can throw a little ball.”
The players cheered loudly as one ball clanked into another. Najib stood and rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get things rolling.” He chuckled to himself.
Chanti stood, too. “I do love a good pun.” As they stood at the edge of the court, they pressed their shoulders together. “I could get used to this,” Chanti said.
Najib reached down for a ball. “These are actually called boules,” he said, tossing the ball in the air.
“Are they?” Chanti said, looking at Najib, expectantly. “Anything else to say?”
He tossed a ball onto the court. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
Chanti pursed her lips and tried to ignore the crescendo of ringing in her ears.
8.
Chanti lay in bed, alone, staring at the ceiling. She had been in the dating game for a minute now, and before she met Najib, she made herself a promise, one she intended to keep. She was not going to spend any more of her precious time teaching a man how to love her right. And, she thought with a sinking feeling, that did not bode well for what she and Najib had going on. She was down bad, even though she didn’t want to admit it. But she wasn’t down so bad that she wasn’t going to take care of herself. She knew that for damn sure.
9.
They were stretched out on Najib’s small couch, limbs entwined, watching TV. He could barely keep his eyes open as Chanti talked. “Mmmm hmmm,” he kept murmuring.
Chanti gently slapped his shoulder. “Are you paying attention?”
“Always, babe,” he said.
“Have you missed me?”
Najib sighed, softly. “Babe, just being for real ok. When would I miss you? We see each other all the time. You live less than a block away when you’re on this coast.”
She reached for the remote and muted the television as she sat up. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I… I was just being honest.”
Chanti crossed her arms over her chest. She took a deep breath. And then another. And another. She stood. “You know what…”
“What?” Najib asked, bracing himself.
The room was silent. Even the hum of the refrigerator seemed to stop. “I… hear you. I’m not loving what I’m hearing, but you’ve been heard.”
Najib rubbed his beard. “You mad?”
“Mad? Nah. A little hurt, but I guess too much of a good thing is too much of a good thing.”
“Word?”
Chanti nodded, still closed in on herself. Najib reached over and brushed a few strands of hair from her face. “I should probably get going. Give you some time to… miss me.”
“Now, Chanti… don’t be like that.” Najib sat up, too. “And let me be clear, you aren’t too much. I just... I want to miss you more. I want time to think about you when you’re not around. And some nights, I just want to make my music, chill with my boys, do me.”
“Fair enough. But… Can I tell you what I want?”
Najib cocked his head to the side. “Oh?”
“Look,” Chanti said. “You’ve never had a serious girlfriend before. I don’t want to have to teach you how to be a boyfriend but, like, I need you to show me you care… surprise me. Bring me flowers. Match my energy. Like, I want romance, full on.”
Najib placed a line of kisses along Chanti’s arm, stopping at her neck. “I can do romance.”
“I do not mean just that,” Chanti said.
He stood and held his hand out. “Heard,” he said.
Chanti took a moment, looked at Najib long and hard, and then stood up, grabbed her things, and left for her apartment.
Najib, now alone, sat back down, to consider where this left them.
10.
Chanti smiled as the plane slowly descended toward the glittering New York skyline. It had been another productive trip to Los Angeles, the bright shining sun, her apartment there so cute and perfectly hers. It had been a busy three weeks, styling five clients for a major awards show. She spent most of her days pulling interesting pieces and reaching out to designers, trying to assemble the perfect looks, doing fittings with her clients. She went out with friends, dancing late into the night, and saw another friend’s new play in a tiny Hollywood theatre. She went to the beach and read while watching people from behind her sunglasses. At night, she fell into bed exhausted, texted with Najib a bit before falling asleep. It was good, she thought, some time and space for the heart to grow fonder. It was good.
The studio was cramped, but Najib didn’t mind. He bobbed his head as he sat at the recording console, listening to the track he had just laid down. Next to him, his engineer and friend Yusuf was also feeling the flow.
Yusuf snapped his fingers three times. “I think you got it, this time.”
Najib rubbed his hands together and leaned back in his chair. “I think I did, too.”
Suddenly, Najib looked up and saw the clock. He shot to his feet. “I’ve gotta go. I’m gonna be late.”
“Hot date?” Yusuf asked.
“Something like that. Drop me that track, will you?”
Yusuf nodded as Najib checked his reflection in the glass between them and the recording booth. He smoothed his beard down and ran his fingers along his eyebrows. And then he was out and into an Uber, heading to JFK, hoping traffic wouldn’t be ridiculous. He fidgeted, restless, as traffic was, in fact, ridiculous, and checked the airline app and looked at his watch and then stared out the window. On the seat next to him, a bouquet of pink roses. When the car finally pulled up to the terminal arrivals, he thanked the driver, grabbed the flowers, and ran into the terminal.
Passengers were just beginning to trickle over to the baggage carousel. Najib looked around but couldn’t find Chanti. He had made it in time. Or he hadn’t and she was already gone. Nearby a baby started crying, loud and just beyond the baby, an angry line of passengers stood at the lost luggage desk. He watched the doors enclosing the secure area, expectantly. He was a little nervous and a little excited, or maybe a lot nervous and a lot excited. It was weird, he decided, showing up at an airport people worked hard to avoid. He was going to leave, pretend this stalker moment never happened. Najib turned toward the exit, nearly trembling with nervous energy. Suddenly, his mouth was dry, so very dry.
And then he felt a warm hand on his shoulder, the familiar scent of Chanti’s perfume tickling his nose. He turned around, slowly, his smile growing.
Is it possible to be in love with someone else's love story and meet cute? I hope there will be another installment? In fact I'd love to hear more about the other end of relationships as well - where couples are considering breaking up.