When the virus began to spread, I didn’t notice because I was too busy swiping right. The app keeps showing you faces; smiling, posed, hopeful faces. And the more you swipe towards a potential future together, the more faces it shows you. So I kept on swiping, not noticing how many of those faces had growing blisters and peeling skin.
After the virus, came the horde. They screamed down through our atmosphere on chariots made of a metal we didn’t know existed, surface warping and shifting like lava. I barely realised they’d begun harvesting us, too focused on each swipe. I care about each face, you see. I read each profile, consider what I’d say if we matched. I didn’t mind how many of them looked scared, how many of them were posing their selfies in underground bunkers, their pouts lit by candlelight.
A meteor struck, and there were fewer faces to swipe now. Instead of the endless churn of new profiles, an infinity of un-swiped, I started to recognise some. They stood against blasted landscapes, their skin boiling off the bones, but I knew I’d seen them before. I kept swiping.
When the Endless Ravagers of Eternity descended on us from their dimension, I paid them no heed. I stared at the phone, waiting for a face, any face, to come up. I ignored the consuming of reality, the chewing noise that grew louder and more insistent. I closed the app, then relaunched it. A new face appeared, the smile simple, the eyes beckoning. I swiped right.
We matched.
