The Algorithm of Us

You know how this goes. Swipe right, swipe left, swipe until your thumb cramps and the screen is sticky from spilled whiskey or melted ice cream. The algorithm learns what you like: a girl who looks good in a thrift-store band tee.

I’m not looking for love. Not even lust. Just a distraction. A glitch in the endless loop of boredom.

Then, there she is. Lila. Not page one material. She’s not one of those curated profiles where every photo screams, “I know how to live my best life.” Her pictures are grainy, like they’ve been cropped from group photos. Her hair changes color from shot to shot: green, blue, and something I think is supposed to be blonde but looks like the aftermath of a bleach disaster.

And her bio?

“Looking for someone who can outsmart the algorithm. No smokers, no vegans, no one who claps when the plane lands.”

No emojis. No fake self-deprecation. Just a challenge.

I stare at her picture for five full seconds. The algorithm pauses, its little AI brain buzzing, waiting for me to swipe. It already knows I’m going to say yes. That’s its job.

Swipe right.

First message.

It’s hers.Not a timid “Hey,” not a “So, what do you do for work?” Not even a “What’s up?”

Instead, she sends me this:

“You look like you enjoy being miserable. Let’s meet up.”

I laugh out loud. A real laugh, not the exhale you fake when texting someone. She nailed it. My profile photo is me at a bar, scowling into a beer, as if the camera caught me mid-thought about how much I hate IPA culture.

I write back:“You look like you enjoy making other people miserable. Where and when?”

She replies immediately.“Moonflower Café. Tomorrow at 10. Don’t be late or I’ll swipe left on you IRL.”

Tomorrow. Ten. A vegan café with a name that sounds like an overpriced candle. I hate it already.

But I’ll go. Of course, I’ll go.