By Kevin B,
He said he’d be here an hour ago.
I decided to go to sleep, because I have to get up early tomorrow. I told him that. I told him that I was going to Montreal to see my ex-boyfriend, because we might be getting back together. We might be getting back together even though my ex-boyfriend refuses to move back to the United States, because he says we’re a country built on the graves of the innocent, as if every country isn’t like that.
I told the guy I was talking to that I wanted to hook up before I left tomorrow, because if I end up back with my boyfriend then it’ll be a little bit like going into prison, because my ex-boyfriend insists on monogamy, even though he knows I don’t believe in it. I don’t cheat, so if we get back together, I’ll be loyal to him, and I’ll get bored pretty quickly. A hook-up before then will be my last, good meal before incarceration. I told him I was submissive even though I’m feeling dominant tonight. I told him I like normal stuff, even though I know the word “normal” can be problematic. I told him my name is Charles.
It’s not.
He’s not entitled to know things about me. Whoever he is, and however the night was going to go, I was never going to see him again. I don’t believe in friends with benefits. I believe a one-night stand should only last for one night. I believe it makes the experience hotter if you know it’s going to be singular.
I gave him my address. He told me he was a few miles away. I could see that he was telling the truth. He shared his location on the app. Yes, there he was. A few miles away. I told him I was looking forward to seeing him. I was.
He looked handsome in his photos. A little older than the age on his profile, but people lie about that. People lie on the apps. I lied. I said my name is Charles. It’s not. I’m not entitled to the truth anymore than he is. He says he’s thirty-five. I don’t think he is. It’s okay. I don’t need him to be thirty-five. I just need him to look like his photos. He sent four. In three, he looks very handsome. In the fourth, I’m not sure. It’s all a risk. A gamble. You roll the dice. You give out your address. You give access to a stranger. You’re a man. Why would you be scared? Men are still men. Gay men are still men. Men don’t need to be afraid.
When have I ever really been afraid?
He didn’t show up in a few minutes. I know right away I’m being stood up. He’s flaking on me. It happens. I send a message. The app tells me he sees it. He reads it, but he doesn’t respond.
I send a “?” I send a “Hello?” I send a “Um????” I send a “Dude, seriously?” I debate sending a rant. A tirade. I debate lecturing him on wasting my time. I decide it’s not worth it. His spot on the shared map doesn’t move. I decided to go to sleep.
I let a little negativity in. I tell myself he wouldn’t have flaked if I was cuter. He would have showed up if I weighed ten pounds less. He would have come if my hairline wasn’t receding. It’s my fault. I’m disgusting. That’s why my ex broke up with me. Not because he moved to Montreal to work for a marketing company there. It was me. It was because he wanted to get away from me.
I go to sleep without packing my suitcase like I had promised myself I would. Now, I’ll have to do it quickly tomorrow, and I’ll be rushing to the airport, and I’ll be cursing myself the entire time, but I’ll be blaming the guy from last night who never showed up and sent me down a shoddy path.
I’m woken up by my phone vibrating.
I’ve always been a light sleeper. My ex used to wake me up with his snoring. I mentioned it to him once and he was embarrassed. Maybe that was why he decided to break up with me. Why would I complain about something like that? Who do I think I am? I look at my phone. I’ve only been asleep for twenty minutes. I check to see why the phone is buzzing. I’m hoping my ex has texted to say “Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow! Xoxo” but I don’t have any new text messages.
I should have known from the tone of the vibration. That was the app. I have a new message. It does occur to me that it might be the flaky guy from earlier. Maybe something came up and he wants to apologize.
I look at the message.
Yes, it’s from him, but it’s not an apology.
It says–
“Your name isn’t Charles.”
I tell myself he’s a weirdo. He is. He is a weirdo. Who sends something like that?
I don’t question how he knows my name isn’t Charles. He might have found me on social media. He might have talked to someone else on the app that knows my name isn’t Charles. He might have gone to hook up with some other guy, and they got to talking about me. How I’m a liar. How my photos make it look like I weigh less and my hairline isn’t receding.
He might have always known my name wasn’t Charles. We might have talked prior to this, and I didn’t know it, because I delete the app every other day, because I hate having it on my phone. I hate being on there. I hate all apps even the ones that say they’re for dating even though they’re really all for sex. He might have been playing with me this entire time. Mocking me without me realizing it. Flaking was part of the game.
I block him. I need to go back to sleep.
A minute later, the phone vibrates. It’s that same specific buzz.
I look at the phone. Yes, I have a new message. I check.
“Your name isn’t Charles.”
How did he message me? Does he have another profile? No, it’s the same profile.
I block him again, but this time, his profile doesn’t even disappear. It must be a glitch in the app. Great. It’s bad enough these apps have destroyed interpersonal connections, but now they don’t even work properly–if they ever did.
I delete the app from my phone. I’ll redownload it if my ex doesn’t want to get back together, but he will, and this time we’ll make it worth it, so I’ll never have to download it again. I’m only going to think positive things moving forward. I’m going to do what my therapist tells me and I’m going to drink water and I’m not going to set my time on fire by being on apps.
The phone vibrates.
The app is back. How is it back? Apps have glitches, but they can’t download themselves onto your phone once you take them off. That can’t happen.
Yes, a message.
“Your name isn’t Charles.”
Something else.
I notice his distance has moved. He isn’t four miles away anymore. Now he’s three miles away. He’s a mile closer than he was. Why?
I look at the shared location. He stopped sharing. I can’t see the dot anymore. Can he do that? I don’t remember anyone being able to do that. But I don’t remember any of this being possible. I blocked him. I shut him out. How is he still here? How is he still messaging me.
My phone vibrates.
“Tell me your name.”
This isn’t right. I get out of bed. I nearly trip over the two piles of clothing I left unfolded on the floor. What should I do? I think about contacting the police. But what are they going to do? I’m just some guy who was looking for no strings sex on an app after midnight. They won’t take me seriously.
And so what if the guy is coming here? I live in an apartment building. He can’t get inside. The lobby door is locked. He doesn’t know what floor I’m on. He doesn’t know which door is mine. I delete the app again. I’m safe. There’s no reason I shouldn’t feel safe.
But now I can’t sleep. I decide maybe now is a good time to start packing. I’ll make the most out of this anxiety. I’ll pack my suitcase. I’ll get things in order. I might even leave early for the airport. Why not? I’ve never been early for anything in my life, but why not start now? The whole point of the trip is to become a new person. A better person. I never should have gone on the app in the first place. I’m practically taken. I’m practically in a relationship. I should have just gone to bed.
Another vibration.
I look at the phone.
“Your name isn’t Charles.”
Then, very quickly–
“Tell me your name.”
I check the distance. I can’t help myself. He’s a mile away. How did he move so quickly? Have I lost my sense of time? What time is it? Why is he bothering to drive all this way? I explained to him when we first spoke that I live in an apartment. I told him that I would have to buzz him in. He must know I’m not going to do that now. He must know that even if someone else lets him into the building, he’ll never figure out which floor I’m on and which apartment I’m in. And even if he did, I’m not going to open my door for him. He can’t get to me. Why won’t he just give up?
And why is he badgering me about my name? Why does it matter? I wanted him to come over. I asked him to. He was the one who stood me up. He was the one who didn’t show. Why is he angry with me? Because I lied? Because I lied about my name? Why does he care about my name?
A vibration.
“Does Charles live in Apt #407? Or is that you?”
That can’t be right. I never gave him my apartment number. I’d never be that stupid. I have a system for this. When I invite someone over, I check the lobby camera to make sure they look like their photo. Then, I buzz them in. It’s only when they’ve signed in with the security guard in the lobby that I let them upstairs. That’s when I tell them which apartment is mine. I’m smart. I’m smart about this kind of thing. How does he know my apartment number? Does he know me? Is this a catfish? Has he been over here before? Is someone playing a joke on me?
I call downstairs. The security guard answers the phone. I don’t know his name. I think it might be Trevor, but I’m not sure. I don’t interact much with the nighttime security guards.
“Hello, excuse me? This is #407. I was wondering if you could do me a favor? If someone shows up–”
“Sorry,” the security guard says, “What’s your name?”
I nearly drop the phone.
“Why?”
“You said you’re in #407. But I need to know your name.”
“I’ve lived here for eight years.”
“I’m sure you have, but I need to know your name.”
“Can’t you just look it up?”
“I can’t. I’m sorry. What’s your name?”
Something occurs to me.
“Is it you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Are you the one doing this? Is it you?”
“I don’t–”
But I don’t give him a chance to answer. I hang up.
The phone vibrates.
I check the message.
“Buzz me in.”
I want to boil the phone in water. I want to put it in the microwave. I want to dump it in the air fryer. But I need it for tomorrow. I need to let my ex know when my plane takes off and when it lands. I need to let him know that I’m getting an Uber when I get there, because he’s going to be busy at work, so he can’t pick me up. And that’s fine. That’s not a big deal.
This is a big deal. Why is this–
A new message.
“Never mind. I’m in.”
No.
No, no, how can he be–?
I check the lobby cam. There’s nothing there. It’s black. The screen is black. Why do I pay for security if I can’t see the lobby cam? Why do I pay for a security guard who just wants to ask my name over and over again? Why do I pay to keep people out if they can get in?
I look at the distance.
He’s less than a hundred feet away.
“I’m in the elevator.”
I think about responding to him. I think about telling him that he can’t come in. I won’t let him. I think about begging him to go home. I think about telling him that I’m going to call the police. I think about saying I’ll kill him. I think about saying that I’ll beat him to death with a baseball bat. I don’t own a baseball bat, but he doesn’t know that. Does he know that? What does he know?
“Just got off on the fourth floor.”
No.
I consider pushing my couch in front of the door. But why? Can he break down a door? Is he that strong? He doesn’t look strong in his photos. He looks lean. Lean and in shape, but not capable of breaking down a door. But is that him? Were those photos really him? Could this be an entirely different person? Should I scream? Will my neighbors hear me? Will they care? It’s so late and–
A knock.
My mouth is dry. All the saliva’s turned to sweat and pooled in my armpits and down my backside and over my palms while my feet are stone cold and my breath refuses to calibrate. I move towards the door. I don’t sense anybody on the other side. Would I sense it? Could I trust myself to sense it? Earlier, I thought I had everything under control. I had lined up a nice fling before flying off to Montreal. I knew what the night was. I knew what the morning would look like. What do I know now?
I lean my ear against the door. Will I hear breathing? Will I hear the shuffling of feet? The cracking of knuckles? I hear nothing. I wish I had a peephole. Why don’t I have one? I don’t have one, because by the time someone reaches your door, you’re supposed to know who they are. You’re supposed to know that they belong there.
I hear nothing. I think about opening the door. The way someone who finds themselves trapped on a ledge might wish to simply fall and have it be done with, I think about opening the door and welcoming in whatever might be on the other side. I think about letting the vampire taste me. After all, he’s already here.
Instead, I do it.
I close my eyes, and I whisper something.
My name.
My real name.
The phone vibrates.
And then I hear the sound of someone walking away.
Kevin B is a writer and poet from New England. They have been published in Esoterica, Molecule, Havik, Qu, New Plains Review, and Shift. They are the George Lila Award winner for Short Fiction and the Barely Seen Featured Poet of 2023.
