For some reason he glanced up, and his mouth dropped open. The ceiling was mirrored, so that the entire room’s cubes were visible at once, and the sight of it was unmistakable. The layout was exactly like the apps on a smartphone, each cubicle representing an app.
Could this be his phone?
As it happened, the Mail app was just in front of him to the left, so he turned toward it. If it wasn’t his, he might be able to find out who was contacting whom from this giant phonelike warehouse, and what they were saying. Maybe this was the brains behind the whole operation.
With a bracing breath, he stepped into the cubicle—and was immediately assailed by visions of folders and envelopes and one half-written message on a large screen right in front of him.
Bud, following up on our conversation earlier today, I’ve done some research and it seems StockSolutions has made virtually no changes to their logo, website, advertising or visibility in the market in the sixteen years they’ve been in business. I believe this could explain their lackluster performance with the public, their approach being the same—
Whoever had been writing the note had left off in the middle of it. Either that or they were still working on it. In any case, the note didn’t seem to have any bearing on this room or this building or the poor beleaguered souls trapped here.
He left the mail app and walked down the line. There was a music app—like a radio stuck between stations, multiple songs played at once—and a clothing app, with hologram models slouching and sauntering about the cubicle. Shoes walked themselves around in another. Hotel rooms drifted across cubicle walls in yet another. And on and on past YouTube and Amazon and real estate sites. One app whispered Spanish phrases as he went by. Another played tinkly music and urged him to relax. The Candy Crush game nearly deafened him, its cartoon characters waving flags at him to play, and the New York Times crossword demanded a three-letter word for a mythical Persian bird. He’d bet Macy knew the answer to that.
Some of the apps he passed weren’t open, but they were all lit up like pinball machines waiting for a quarter. He kept going until he got to one wreathed in a blinding yellow light. Squinting, he peered into the cubicle and saw a pulsing red center. He took a tentative step toward the door and was immediately yanked inside and swept into a chair. A screen opened up in front of him proclaiming itself to be the iLove Profile Page. Someone was typing.
Who I’m looking for . . .
I’m looking for a man who’s paying attention—
The phrase “paying attention” jerked him upright in his seat. Was this what he was supposed to be looking at? Should he have investigated that app on his own screen more closely? He continued reading.
. . . who knows the value of eye contact and asking questions. He has to be sincere, not just going through the motions, and he should be genuinely interested in people. He should be strong and smart, but confident enough to admit when he’s wrong or when the woman he’s with is right. He must be ethical, conscientious, generous and not petty. He should know how to make a girl feel special.
“He should be a boy scout,” Jeremy told the screen. “Don’t forget ‘Be prepared’!”
He should not be afraid of powerful women. The man I’m looking for is comfortable in his own skin and sure of his place in the world. He should also have a very large penis—
Jeremy blinked. Then the cursor rapidly backed up over the last sentence.
* * *
“Delete delete delete!” Macy squealed.
April cackled like a witch over a cauldron, pecking at the backspace key. She had moved from the phone to the computer for ease of typing.
“What if you’d accidentally uploaded that?” Macy couldn’t help a burst of laughter. “I’d be swarmed by perverts!”
“You think there are that many big penises out there?” April scoffed.
“I think there are that many men who think they have big penises out there.”
The two of them cracked up again, and April poured another slug of wine into Macy’s coffee mug. They’d stayed late to write the profile—April running out to get wine and Chinese food—and Macy was getting just tipsy enough to think that maybe this was worth trying. After all, she could sit at the privacy of her own computer and flip through scads of men without ever having to leave her chair. The filtering aspects of it were awesome. You could knock out guys who smoked with the click of the mouse. You could choose them by political party. You could search by age, status, college degree—even hair or eye color, if you were that picky.
“I’ve never really liked blond guys,” Macy admitted when they got to that section.
“Give me a break,” April said. “Ruling out blonds is like men ruling out women with small breasts. Tell me you’re not that person.”
“Of course not.” She waved the suggestion off with her mug. “I was only saying. It’s weird, what you look for and what you don’t, what’s attractive and what’s not. It’s so . . . inexplicable. It’s a wonder anybody finds anybody. Don’t put that in there.” She clasped her mug in both hands, elbows on armrests and lips on the rim. “Though maybe you should add something about not being in love with technology . . .”
“Calling all Luddites,” April typed. “That’ll be our headline. You’ll end up with a guy who’s been living under a rock. With an illicit computer.”
They’d gotten through the multiple choice questions quickly and were halfway through the essay. April had typed in a few positive things about Macy and was racing through what she wanted in a guy.
“What else?” April sat with her hands poised over the computer keyboard. Taking another sip of her wine, Macy leaned over to see what she’d written so far. It all sounded pretty cliché, but she thought it best not to mention that to April. She was, after all, just trying to help.
“He should be funny, and well-read,” Macy added. “With a goofy sense of humor.” She smiled, remembering Jeremy doing an impromptu dance while taking off his boxers in the middle of her bedroom. “And he should have kick-ass shoulders. Dreamy eyes, and long fingers . . .” Fingers that caressed with just the right amount of pressure, not tickling, yet not poking. A touch that sent shivers not just down a girl’s spine but into her toes, melting her insides . . .
“Yeah, we all know what long fingers means.”
Macy snorted. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I’m not putting all that. Especially not ‘goofy.’ You’ll end up with some loser bodybuilder with a kick-ass comic book collection.”
April laughed hard at her own joke, but Macy suddenly felt depressed. She put her mug down, blinking at the top of her desk.
“What? It was funny!” April protested. “Okay I’m putting down here that you want someone fit, with a good sense of humor . . .”
“I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
April looked over at her, then down at the desk where Macy was gazing. “What do you mean? Did you forget to do something?”
“No.” She looked up at her friend, her stomach in her throat, the conviction of having let something slip through her fingers filling her. How had she lost it? What had she been thinking?
“About Jeremy, I mean,” she continued, her voice reedy. “I think I’ve made a mistake. I can’t stop thinking about him. He was perfect, except for that one thing.”
April’s face lost its glee. “That one thing being that he didn’t pay any attention to you.”
She pictured Jeremy’s eyes gazing down at her as his body moved over hers, their breath mingling while their torsos arched and flexed together, legs tangling. “He paid attention to me sometimes.”