Dear Amanda,

I thought we really had something special. That singular moment when I first saw you, time stood still. Your beautiful eyes stared into my soul through the pixels of my iPhone. I became mystified by your presence, poise and posture while holding that very large handle of alcohol. Just thinking of that picture now brings a single tear to my eye.

I had not come to Tinder for love. For me, Tinder was a game, one that was designed to test my overwhelming masculine abilities. The rules are simple. When you open the game, you are presented with a portrait of a figure. You have two options upon being presented with this portrait. One is to tell the Tinder gods that this figure is attractive through a meaningful right swipe. The other is to terminate the figure whom you deem unattractive with a brazen left swipe. When your job is completed, a new figure appears and the process starts again.

I am one who has been burned by the flames of Tinder. It confuses me. As I view myself as very attractive, there have been those who have shunned my essence through the painful left swipe. I do not understand these people. Why do they have to be so cruel? Why can’t they see my golden personality through the emojis I have carefully chosen for my description? In this time of crisis, I conquered a moment of self realization. Tinder had nothing to do with love. In fact, to judge a person only by their looks is impossible and cruel.

But then I saw Amanda. The date was June 22, 11:19 in the morning. I was just completing my daily swiping as my mind was focused on the girl in the portrait. She was a dancer, average looking, and seemed to like dogs. I gave her the benefit of the doubt and swiped right. It all had become routine. Tinder, the swiping, the girls, the game had become too easy, too mundane. It was in this moment of thinking that a new portrait popped up.

Her name was Amanda, age 22, two miles away. I felt as if all the air of the room was sucked away by an unseen life force, and in that moment, my heart and soul fell for this girl. She was only a collection of pixels, but immediately I saw it in her grand smile, her dimly lit face revealing a handful of the most beautiful features. This was Amanda, and I loved her. I loved her more than the stars in the sky, the grains in the sand, more than a James Blunt song. I graciously tapped on her portrait, revealing more pictures of pure Tinder bliss. Your next picture was you hiking, your smile resonating beyond the mountains, the next was of you and your friends, and the fact that your friends could survive your illuminating glow simply astounded me.

I felt a warmness envelop me. It embraced me, something that I couldn’t even dream of before that moment. It was … love? Suddenly everything made sense. I knew my purpose in life. I knew why I had spent so many hours on Tinder. I understood why God made men and women, and why so many great people needed the world to know what love is.

I began to float on you, on your energy, I flew like a bird. I saw our wedding, you in a white dress (still holding whiskey for some reason), me in a black tuxedo, our families coming together to celebrate the beauty of our love. I saw you and I living together, in a large cottage in Delaware. We had four kids: Mandy, Adnama, Amand and ‘Manda. We grew old together until my health began to decline. I was 90 years old, lying on my deathbed, seeing my last sights. All I wished to see was someone who made me feel as if I deserved a place on earth, something that gave my life meaning. And I saw you, looking down, tears in your eyes, but a smile creased on your lips, telling me that I’ll be alright and though the bond of our eternal love was finished, that she still loved me.

And I drifted away. Slowly falling, my life in complete and utter nirvana. All I had to do was do a simple swipe and …

I nearly dropped my phone. My heart screamed out in the agony of this horrifying disaster. I looked down at the device, there was a new portrait up, Amanda gone and all I could remember was a simple action.

I swiped left.

I’m sorry Amanda, please contact me …

Zachariah Schwartzman