far

Fiction

Knights in White Armor

Neil Weiner
issue four

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I’m staring at Josh, trying to send a silent message: notice me, damn it. Eight months together and it feels like we’re already an old sitcom, predictable, stale, and airing way past our prime. He’s got the headset on, laughing with his band of thirty-something adolescents over some video game war. I’m not jealous of the guys, just of the attention he gives them.

It wasn’t always this way. There were date nights. Beach trips. Parties where he’d pull me close like I was his prize. Now, on a Saturday night, it’s “I have a work thing” or he’s blasting away zombies with his digital bros. I feel like the nagging wife.

Then his phone buzzes. He glances, types something quick, and when I ask who it is, he says “no one” without even blinking. No one. As if I’m an idiot here. 

My friends say he’s cheating. They say dump him. I say I love him. They tell me that it’s not love, it’s attachment with a joystick thrown in. Maybe they’re right. Then I remember the way he used to look at me, and I want to believe I can resurrect that man from whatever bunker he’s hiding in.

And here’s the worst part: I’m thirty, which means I lost two prime years of connection to COVID lockdowns and now the dating-app meat market. I don’t know if men can connect. We all got trained to flirt through filters and confess our souls via text bubbles. Online, men all write about sunsets and deep conversations while walking by the ocean. Offline, the timer starts ticking. After sixty days the spots show: the gamer, the ghoster, the cheater, the guy who never leaves the couch.

And I know the smart thing is to leave. But I’m still here, playing tug-of-war with myself, one hand on the door handle, the other clutching the dream of what we used to be.

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Melissa used to be the dream, sexy, and fun. Now? She’s turned into my personal parole officer, checking in on “quality time.” Fairly sure she picked up that phrase in one of those therapy cult circles. And her girl gang? They’re worse. Same script every time: “he’s not attentive enough, he’s emotionally stunted, he’s just a little boy in a man-suit.” 

Look, I’m not saying I don’t love her. I do. But when every conversation turns into a “connection” performance audition, it kills the mood. You want to spend time together? Cool. But do I have to schedule it like a dentist appointment?

So yeah, I joined Tinder. Not to cheat. Just to window-shop. To see what’s out there. A little harmless market research. Is that a crime?

I went incognito. New name, Adrian. Doctored pics. I know what plays well with women, but this time I cranked it to eleven. Borrowed some AI poetry, sprinkled in my parents were abusive for that wounded-bird effect, threw in “two years of therapy” for extra depth. Basically, presented the Hallmark version of me.

And you know what? It worked. My phone’s been on fire. Only problem. Melissa’s starting to clock the late-night texting. She’s eyeing me like she’s caught a whiff of something burning.

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I checked Josh’s phone last night while he was in the bathroom. The dirty dog is on Tinder. I should be shocked but I’m too jaded about men. Well, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. I set up a fake profile with yummies that guys will eat up. I post a picture of someone on my gym advertisements who has ample cleavage. I fill out the questionnaire explaining that I’m a gamer who likes stay at home activities. Then the clincher: no serious relationship. I just want to have fun and enjoy the moment. 

I know exactly how it reads to men in their thirties, low effort, high reward, no drama. I can practically hear the swipes.

The next day my fake Chloe is live and already pulling matches. And me? I’m sitting there smiling like the cat who just learned how to swipe right. Men watch out, my claws are out.

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I swear on my mother’s life that I only got on Tinder to screw around: harmless swiping. a little ego boost. But then I saw her. Chloe. Everything Melissa isn’t anymore, playful, flirty, spontaneous, and zero lectures about “quality time.” And that picture? Pure kryptonite for men. Whoever she is, she knows the game. Serves up a little cleavage, sprinkles in just want to have fun, and the hook sets itself.

Two weeks of texting and I’m all in. She laughs at my jokes, quotes Rumi like she means it, and somehow makes me feel like the most interesting man alive. We’ve set a date at a poetry reading at the local college. Artsy, low-key, perfect.

Look, if it doesn’t pan out, I’ve still got Melissa. I’m not leaving her. I’m just… exploring my options. Win-win. Right?

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I planned this Tinder escapade to get revenge on Josh, but I’m intrigued by this one profile by Adrian. I have a Geiger counter for male bullshit, yet this profile is sincere. He shows vulnerability which is attractive, and the name Adrian reeks sensitivity. Our texting is progressing so quickly that we set up a meet. I feel guilty for cheating on Josh, but this is only a potential friendship. 

No need to retreat into some tired got caught in the web of male sexism narrative. Please. This is 2025, and I’m not anyone’s victim. Like they used to say, watch me roar. I’m a woman. I get to decide what feeds me, what excites me, what makes me feel alive.

I feel lighter with this realization. Almost smug. Josh can keep living his little fantasies. I’m going to walk into that poetry reading in my favorite dress, hair perfect, and a strong, independent woman attitude. This isn’t betrayal. This is my evolution.