POV: Checking Out the Long Line of Hinge Matches I’ve Ghosted at CityCo
By Tom Silver
CITYCO - I should’ve known this would happen when I set one mile as my maximum distance on Hinge, the dating app that’s designed to be deleted and re-downloaded. There’s no way my lazy ass will ever go past Kenmore for a date, and if you don’t have a BU ID, we can’t get knighted at the BU Pub together. It’s that simple. But matching with every Boston University scholar you see on Hinge is a bad idea if you work at CityCo. You quickly realize that every match either tells you they recognize you (the fan club) or unconvincingly pretends not to (the shoplifters).
From my register perch, I see all of you, the entire close-knit campus community, at your worst - pre-exam, pre-Red Bull and probably pre-Adderall. Or on weekends, post-pregame. I see who’s smart enough to do the dining point hack (1839-2023, RIP), whose OnlyFans is profitable enough for them to afford a trillion convenience points, and which of my hot professors tragically have family pictures in their wallets. And when I ghosted a skinny film and TV major (COM ‘24) with black painted nails and a permanent Lana Del Rey-like facial expression, I should’ve known that sooner or later he’d show up at my register to buy an Ito En Oi Ocha Unsweetened Green Tea, which I’m currently awkwardly scanning.
“How CityConvenient that we’re meeting again,” he says.
“Dining or convenience points?”
“Are you talking about merging our finances already?”
“Please tap your BU ID.”
“I’d still let you tap my BU ID.”
“Sorry, I’m not interested.”
“You’re literally checking me out.”
I pretend not to hear him over “Flowers” by Miley Cyrus playing on the tinny speakers.
“Next in line,” I shout.
Fuck. It’s that guy (CAS ‘23) from my Spanish class last semester. We hooked up the night before our final and were practicing our bedroom furniture vocab the whole time. But I’ve long since said “hasta la vista” to that tight españhole. I’m done with my language requirement, so I’m done with my stud-y buddy.
“Buenos dí-ass,” he drawls. He bites hard into his Boston cream donut, sending white cream spurting all over the counter and both of our faces.
After I clean up the sticky mess, I look up to see the world’s most average floppy-haired white guy. It takes me a second before I recognize him as Eric (ENG ‘24), the unremarkable bi boy who talked about pineapple on pizza on his profile. I ghosted him as soon as I realized I wouldn’t be able to compete with the hordes of bi girls swooning over his 5/10 looks. Alexa, play “Heather” by Conan Gray. But I won’t gatekeep. Ladies, please see this link for details on Eric.
He opens his mouth, but I can’t take this anymore. I run into the walk-in fridge, throw off my CityCo shirt, sweatpants and non-slip shoes and collapse into the familiar comfort of my manager’s muscled arms.