It only takes a couple tries to get my key in the door. I take two steps inside, kick off my shoes, take two more steps, and collapse onto my bed. 
    ‘That was fun.’ 
    I’m talking to an empty room, but I’m not talking to myself. I roll over and the room rolls with me.
    There’s a small succulent in a yellow pot on my bedside dresser.
    ‘That was… fun.’  
    I’ve been talking to myself far too much lately. It’s probably not good, but I can’t seem to stop. So, I bought Simon. Plants grow better when talked to, and I think I probably grow better when I have someone to listen. It’s called a—um— what’s the word? A symbiotic partnership. 
    ‘I drank too much, Simon. You know I can’t hold my alcohol, but I was just having so much fun.’
    I frown and feel the upcoming headache pacing the tension lines in my forehead.  
    ‘First, Danny bought a round, then Meg. It would have been rude not to return the favor! Meg told the funniest story about her boyfriend and—’ 
    I stop, the memory of the two of them at the end of the night flashing. He wrapped Meg’s scarf for her and adjusted her hair. A small moment, but it stuck with me.
    It wasn’t just Meg and her sweet boyfriend that stood out to me tonight.
    A couple, at the bar waiting for drinks, standing side by side. He had his hand up the back of her shirt, rubbing circles on the small of her back.
    I can’t remember the book Danny recommended, even though I do actually want to read it, but the scarf scene and bar couple come to mind even when I’d rather they not.
    ‘Simon? I think I’m lonely.’

Two glasses of water later, wearing sweatpants and a sweater with no bra, I’m cocooned in bed with my laptop. The glow of the screen is too bright, and I feel like a prisoner caught in its spotlight. 
    luxurydating.com
    The welcome page is nondescript. 
    ‘I guess minimalism is luxury,’ I tell Simon as I look at my cluttered shelves, all my favorite belongings packed into a single rented room.
    I hesitate another moment before clicking the ‘enroll’ link. 
    There was no way I was about to sign up for tinder or a hinge account—those seem like something for singles in their mid-20s, not 30-somethings with a vague marriage status. Bumble may be more my age group, but god forbid I see someone I know.
    The form to create an account is fairly straightforward, and I’m grateful. The last time I was in the dating pool, apps hadn’t even been invented. We did our online flirting via AIM messenger and myspace rankings.  
    ‘What am I doing, Simon?’
    I spend forty-five minutes selecting the four pictures that will go on my profile. 
    ‘If I post filtered photos they’ll call me a catfish, but if I post random selfies, they’re not going to call me at all…’
    I settle on a few photos taken during a recent trip to the countryside. The natural lighting is great for my skin, and the outfit is adorable. Hmm… on second thought I delete one of the ‘adorable’ pictures and replace it with one from a night out that has a rather large amount of cleavage.
    ‘Here we go.’
    I click publish and my profile goes live.
    Then I immediately close the laptop, set it to the side, and bury my face in a pillow to groan.        Why does this feel so humiliating?
    I drag myself downstairs to the shared kitchen to make a cup of tea. 
    ‘God, I am going to have to pee so many times tonight—I’ve had way too much liquid after eleven.’ I remember Simon isn’t here, so I really am just talking to myself now. 
    I step over the squeaky stair in case anyone is sleeping. My balance is a little fuzzy and I stifle a giggle when I realize just how tipsy I still am. For some reason I think being this buzzed is hilarious. Maybe because it only took a few weak pints.  
    In the kitchen, one of my roommates used the electric kettle last and left it half full of something that isn’t entirely liquid, so I commit the cardinal sin of heating my water in the microwave. 

Back in bed with my blasphemous mug, I eye the laptop. It’s only been about fifteen minutes since my profile went up, it’s silly to—I grab the computer and frantically type my password. Wrong. Twice.
    Eventually I’m back in the spotlight glow of the screen and I click refresh. A small bubble with the number two is flashing at me. 
    ‘Two messages already?’
    My heart skips a little as I open my inbox, ready to see my well-read, emotionally available, luxury matches. 
    The little ‘two’ continues to flash me as I click open the first message and—that’s not the only thing flashing me. 
    ‘A fucking dick pic, really?’
    Why any guy thinks he’s going to win a woman over with a badly lit pic of his crooked mole rat? I really expected better of you, Derek Age 38 from Richmond.
    Just before I click block, I send off a reply message, ‘2/10’.
    I brace myself before opening the next message. 
    It says, ‘Hi’. 
    ‘Wow, Simon. This one’s loquacious.’
    I click on Seth Age 47 West London’s profile. He’s not bad looking, but all his pictures are him strapped into either climbing or hiking gear. His bio says he loves camping. 
    ‘I hate camping. I specifically said that in my profile. Did you even read my bio, Seth?’       
    I click back to my inbox and find another three messages waiting for me. Crack my knuckles, sip my still-too-warm tea, and I’m back to browsing. Surely one of them is worth replying to.
    Message three, Tyler Age 42 Chelsea, starts out well with a ‘What’s your favorite book?’, but when I tell him he says he hasn’t read it and I should send him a picture of it, but could I do it with my toes posed on the book cover?
    ‘Simon, why can’t you grow into a real person? These guys suck.’
    I shoot my potted companion a plaintive look, but he doesn’t reply. He never replies.
    Ever the masochist, I keep going.
    Message four is an elevator pitch about how crypto can change my life with their expert help.      In message five, Alan Age 45 East London, sends me a shirtless selfie taken in front of a wall of books, and I briefly consider replying, but he’s a bit too fit. This man does not look like he enjoys lazy movie days with donuts and pizza. I click back to my inbox and find more messages waiting.
    ‘Jesus Christ, Simon, this is getting out of hand.’
    Message six is from a very dapper looking man in his fifties, dressed sleekly in all black. His message reads ‘Are you submissive, pet?’ and I roll my eyes so hard they high-five my headache.
    Message seven is… a lot. Elliot Age 62 Central London, sends me a few paragraphs telling me about himself (interesting), his education (pretty impressive), the business he owns (flex), and what he likes to do in his down time. This is great. This is what I was hoping for, even if the age difference is… a bit much. 
    The next paragraph opens with, ‘This must be a true age gap relationship’ and I don’t even know what that means, but it certainly sounds like a kink. I’m about to close out when a new message populates on the screen.
    ‘Elliot says he’s looking for a companion on a business trip to Dublin next weekend. His treat, of course, and—and he just sent me a copy of his bank statement.’
    Luxury dating indeed. 
    I do some ‘girl math’, trying to determine if the number of zeroes equals out the nearly thirty-year age difference.
    ‘Ehhh… I don’t know, Simon, it’s close. I don’t remember the last time I was spoiled.’
    Fingers hovering above keyboard, I click over to Grandfather Moneybag’s profile.
    ‘Oh, yeah, never mind. That’s a no,’ I say, immediately closing the tab. ‘What? Don’t look at me like that. You can’t buy attraction, and I’m not going to fake it. You call it shallow, I call it standards.’
    When I click back to my inbox, I see several more flashing notifications and I realize I don’t want to do this anymore. I know that these men don’t have what I’m looking for. The earlier ache for companionship has dulled—almost disappeared. 
    So, forty-five minutes after its creation, I deactivate my account.

I brush my teeth, without anyone globbing up my tube of toothpaste. Wash my face and complete my nightly routine with no one rushing me. I put my ambient noise machine to the setting I prefer, and tuck myself into a space that’s mine alone.
    ‘Simon? I’ve been considering it, and I don’t think I’m lonely. I think I might have just been horny.’
    I turn onto my side so I can face my silent partner, his yellow pot almost glowing in the moonlight.
    ‘Next time, remind me it’s faster, less humiliating, and more likely to end up satisfying me if I just stick to my vibrator.’