Left? I meant right. Dyslexia is ruining my life. Spatial dyslexia. Is there a word for that? Dyslocusia? Dyslocalia? Left, right, up, down, who can keep track these days, such polarities, mere labels. I swiped left. I wanted to swipe right. Her Joan Baez eyes, Salma Hayek hair, Ingrid Bergman mystery, Grace Slick smile. It was all there. Plus her Ph.D., dog breeding, charities, operatic compositions, Harley Davidsons, weightlifting championships, MacArthur genius grant, David Hockney collection. The whole shebang. Down the eternal drain of dead-end, missed opportunities, late train, passing glances. The whole bit: the subway car going the other way. Frozen in time. Eyes locked. Cinematic longing. Sayonara. Arrivederci. There's a Craigslist category for these lost souls. No, no, I'm done with remorse, self-pity, self-aggrandizement, regret. To be fair, life gives us lots of do-overs, reboots, mulligans. Recalculating. Redial. Draft version. Revision. Track Changes. Recovery file. Is there some programming trick in the dating app? Oh, the oops of oh-no. Swipechosis. Swipal envy. The evaporation of what-if even before the ink was dry.
FOMOed.
Next.
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