With mail clenched between my teeth, six heavy grocery bags dangling from my left hand, and an overstuffed work-tote slung over my right shoulder, I struggled to unlock my apartment door.

There was a trick to it. I needed to pull the doorknob toward me, just enough so that all of the internal pieces had a tiny bit less pressure on them, and then everything seemed to click into place and open up. However, this was extremely difficult to do with my left hand so tangled up that it felt tingly from lack of circulation.

Anyone I had ever given a spare key to (that list wasn't huge - just my parents, Laura, and a few friends or family who stayed as weekend guests) nagged me about fixing it. But in all honesty, I hadn't because my temperamental lock made me feel extra secure somehow. And yes, I know that someone who is breaking in isn't going to use the key, and so it's a totally irrational excuse for not repairing or replacing the lock.

So maybe it was the literature teacher in me, with my love of symbolism and metaphor, that held me back. My lock may not be perfect, but it had always worked for me. There was no reason to replace it. Plus, who wants to spend a whole day waiting around for a locksmith. Not me.

Just as I was getting well and truly sweaty in my parka, the lock relented and I stumbled into my apartment. It was four o'clock; just enough time to put away my groceries, enjoy a glass of wine, and check out my Game/Set/Match message before walking over to Duets. So I shirked free of my coat, kicked off my booties, and quickly hustled every item into its designated spot in fridge or pantry.

Glass in hand, I pushed the spigot on my box of red wine, filling it with a generous pour. Then I took a seat on my sofa and clicked on the app to look at my match, or my "Draw" as they called it. That first sip of wine rolled luxuriously around on my tongue as the name, Donovan Trask, appeared before me.

"Donnie? THE Donovan Trask?"

Gasping at the sight of his name, the wine in my mouth immediately went the wrong way, both up and down simultaneously, sparking a hideous coughing fit.

"No! No way! No how! No chance! No shot! No luck!"

My sinuses burned from the alcohol that shot through my nose as I sputtered, and my eyes teared up. I stood to go grab a tissue, and wine sloshed all over my blouse, slacks, socks and floor.

"FML! Now look at the mess I'm in!"

I put my phone and glass onto the coffee table, and retrieved some paper towels and cleaning spray from the kitchen. I blew my nose into one of the towels before I set myself to mopping up the spill.  My brain was going a mile a minute while I cleaned.

What would possibly possess that app to think Donovan Trask, aka my Douchebag-Ex, is my perfect partner out of all the millions of people on there? There's no way that the Donnie I know even completed a quarter of those intense questions during the screening. Not to mention the fact that it seems unlikely he would ever even use a dating app, since he never needed any help to get female attention. In fact, he always needed far less female companionship in my opinion. And I can't believe that his parents would ever approve of such a thing as an online dating profile. It would ruin their good family name! Plus, he was definitely engaged the last I heard about him from the alumni newsletter. But then again, the fact that he might be engaged, or now married, and still utilizing a dating app, makes the most sense to me. But would he use his real name if he was cheating? Maybe this was a Catfish situation, and somebody was pretending to be him for some twisted reason? Whatever it was, it felt like a cruel joke.

Looking down at the wood floor under my paper towels, not a speck of wine remained, but I was still rubbing away at the nothingness. If I didn't stop I was going to ruin the varnish. My hand froze and I took a deep breath before I stood back up.

My phone rested casually on the table at my side. But now when I looked at it, all I could see was the nuclear bomb it had become. I needed to diffuse it, or it was going to blow me to smithereens.

Maybe it was another guy, named Donovan Trask? I mean, it is possible for two people to have the same name. I hadn't even looked at the profile picture since I was too jolted by the name alone.

I balled up the dirty paper towels in one hand, and picked up my phone with the other. One quick glance at the profile picture sent me rushing into the bathroom to heave up my guts.

Contemplating my next move, I remained curled around the toilet on my knees, with my head resting on my arms and my eyes closed. Donnie's blonde hair, blue eyes, and smug smile, hidden behind his new hipster-beard, appeared on the back of my eyelids. I hated to admit it, but the facial hair worked on him. There was satisfaction in the thought that his mother probably hated it. Maybe Donnie boy was finally growing a pair and standing up to her?

My phone buzzed against the penny tile floor, shaking my mind free of picturing his photo. I silenced my phone, then opened my eyes to look for a somewhat clean spot on the dirty paper towels to wipe my mouth on. Finding none, I binned them and grabbed some toilet paper instead.

A text alert chimed as I flushed the toilet and stood up.

Sending me to voicemail isn't very nice... You'd better not be bailing on me. 😡 A certain eligible bachelor is here, and he looks GOOD. 🤤 All the divorcées are circling. 🦟💩 Get your tush over here, preferably in some curve-hugging jeans that show it off. It's one of your finer ASSets. 🍑💯

I laughed despite myself. Laura could always manage to make me feel a little better. She was the first person I called after Donovan broke my heart years ago, and I could already imagine what she would say when I told her that he was my match. She'd probably repeat what she'd told to me back then, "The quickest way to get over someone, is to get under someone else." And then she'd remind me that I'd never really gotten under someone else since then.

Of course I'd had sex with other people since then. It's not like I'd made a vow of celibacy or something. I had casually dated a few other guys through the years too, but I'd always been too wary to commit to calling any of them my boyfriend, let alone use the L-word again. I suddenly realized that I had never been completely intimate with any other guy, let him get past my defenses to truly get under my skin, since Donnie. So not only had I let that jerk have three precious years of my life during college and grad school, but I'd also inadvertently gifted him with another eight years too.

Well I wasn't going to give him another second of my life!

That included not even typing out my Donovan dilemma to Laura right then.

Be there in 10.

Snatching my toothbrush from its holder, I furiously scrubbed my teeth while a stomped into my bedroom. Fresh clothes, replete with sexy undergarments procured from my drawers, I stripped from my wine stained ones and chucked them into the hamper. Then I marched back to the bathroom to rinse and spit, primp and preen. All the quick standards were done: dry shampoo spritz and a fluff, some more deodorant and perfume on the hot spots, an extra layer of mascara and fresh lip gloss. Five minutes and three shots of tequila later, I was out the door.

"Look out Ryan Pierce, here I come!"