Single white female seeks someone to tell her to kill her own spiders. Male, preferably. Tall, preferably. Those possessing any other physical or intangible traits of said female’s most recent ex-boyfriend need not apply, i.e. callused hands, wandering eyes, shotgun laugh, uncanny ability to make a four-course meal out of whatever happens to be in the cupboard. Seriously, if you know the difference between canola oil and olive oil, don’t even bother. If you’ve ever carved a radish flower, it’s over before it began.
Girl with baggage seeks someone who won’t offer to carry it to the car, but will unlock the trunk with a beep! beep! from 20 feet away, holding his keychain remote like a lightsaber and making a tired joke about the force. Must realize long walks on the beach are more impractical than romantic, less sweet than exhausting. Why else would so many movie training montages be set there? Must not know the first thing about carpentry when it comes to building pedestals for those cinematic ideals. Must love dogs, and blogs, and San Francisco’s persistent fog. Must be lukewarm at best about everything else.
Box-dyed redhead seeks boy who won’t ask if the carpet matches the drapes (on one hand) and won’t open with a discussion about “Lady Lazarus” and Plath’s poetic decline (on the other). Shouldn’t nudge her in the ribs and ask if she, too, eats men like air. Shouldn’t think she needs to hear that she looks beautiful without makeup or pants in the early morning light. Shouldn’t do that thing the first time he sees her naked—make a rectangle with his thumbs and index fingers to peer through like a viewfinder—to indicate he’s taking a mental picture. Definitely shouldn’t absentmindedly trace circles around the moles on her stomach while she’s trying to fall asleep and gently suggest he might know a good dermatologist.
Woman regularly identified as a “catch” by her coupled friends seeks a man who won’t catch her. A man who won’t notice when she skips a shower, won’t assume he’s the reason she shaved; a man impervious to bristles when she doesn’t. Must never extend an invite to a company barbecue on the other side of the bridge. Mustn’t murmur that he can spot her sadness everywhere, that she leaves it behind in the shower like hair, in the garage like gas fumes, in the pantry like spilled salt and crumbs. Can’t tell her that his Boy Scout experience makes him qualified to build her broken heart a sling out of duct tape, twigs, and the cuff of his jeans. Must not have those badges, or that merit. Should be cool with being listed as Big Spoon in her phone contacts. Shouldn’t admit he has quietly nicknamed her Universe.
Single white female wants so badly just to kiss someone she doesn’t care about. Would prefer frank to François. Must love chewed lips, wide hips, and the prospect that the most intimate thing she’ll let him do is light her bowl, or peel the sunburnt skin off the part of her back she can’t reach alone. The male in question should whisper “vermouth” at everything, shouldn’t question anything, shouldn’t be too polite. Should like his women like his walls—tall—and their skin like his brick: exposed. Bonus if he owns a motorcycle. Double bonus if he knows the difference between reckless and death wish, and can take her on a 90-mile-per-hour tear down the 101 without tossing around terms like “precious cargo.” Shouldn’t like the feeling of her chin on his shoulder. Shouldn’t get too comfortable. Shouldn’t ask if she’s okay, or what exactly she’s looking for.