ABC

ABC

It was the first thing I did after tossing my suitcase onto the hotel bed in downtown Toronto. Tinder had failed me before, but there was something intoxicating about the idea of serendipity, even in a curated digital space. Swiping felt like a ritual - a quiet rebellion against solitude. Hopelessly romantic! Yet, felt like a must-do.

Left. Left. Right. Left. Right.

A match!

Profile with 4 photos. The photos were excellent. I loved how he played around with the light. Self-portraits, I felt. 

ABC, film enthusiast, photography nerd! That was the description. 

“What’s ABC?” I typed, leaning back against the headboard.

“Huh?” came the reply.

“In your profile,” I clarified. “It said ABC.”

The typing bubble appeared, pulsed with purpose, then vanished. For a full minute, it danced in and out of existence, teasing me with anticipation.

———————————————

His name was Alex. By the time we had exchanged enough messages to feel like old acquaintances, the strangeness of online introductions melted away. We traded quips about the absurdity of modern courtship and bonded over our shared admiration for Anatomy of a Fall. Beneath his quick wit, there was an undercurrent of thoughtfulness that made me linger in our chat longer than I should have.

We met the next evening at a small café tucked into a side street downtown. I chose it for its warm lighting and the low hum of conversation - an atmosphere soft enough to soften first-date jitters. He grew up in Shanghai but spent his formative years in the U.S., the son of parents who’d timed his birth to coincide with his father’s MBA in Michigan.

“Being ABC,” he said, stirring his latte as if his thoughts needed mixing too, “is like living with one foot in each world. You’re never quite enough of either.”

———————————————

Later, we wandered through the snowy streets, the cold sharpening the edges of everything - the city lights, the muffled sounds of passing cars, the weight of his words still settling in my mind.

When we reached the waterfront, the lake stretched out in silvery stillness, the city’s glow dimming as we moved away from its center. Alex stopped and turned to face me, his breath visible in the crisp air.

“So,” he asked, a teasing lilt in his voice, “do you regret swiping right?”

I laughed, my breath mingling with his. “Not even a little.”

He stepped closer, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. But then he leaned back, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.

“What?” I asked, feeling my cheeks flush.

“Just thinking how funny it is,” he said, “that one little word brought us here.”

“ABC?”

He nodded, and his smile tinged with something I couldn’t quite name. And that’s how I learned what it meant, the meaning became more than just a label or a quirk in a Tinder bio. It was a map of his world, and for one snowy evening in Toronto, he let me trace its lines. I am glad I did. 

American Born Chinese!