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Boredom was an inescapable malaise.

He popped a piece of popcorn--so deep in the wells of tepid hatred that this tasted like nothing more than air--staring at the television as yet another terrible drama played in front of his eyes. These were all the same. Best used as background noise, really, but he had little else to do and the reviews on the internet claimed that this two-bit movie had a particularly steamy scene. He figured it would break up the rhythm if anything.

The scene had not been particularly steamy, and the dialogue desperately needed another few read-overs before anyone even considered this worthy of a fanfiction website. (What was that place called these days? Something about a three--)

He rolled his eyes.

His hand wandered to the phone that sat mournfully over touched on the couch and plucked it up again, wondering what he'd do this time. Another crossword? He had done all the daily ones from frequent publishers already. Perhaps he could find another maze? Maybe there was something else he could watch.

His lips lifted.

Something else.

Someone else, maybe?

It led him to open an app on his phone that he had grown familiar with over the years. Easier to delve into the depths of internet braggarts than to go to bars for entertainment; he didn't understand why anyone would continue to be so insistent on the old ways. At his fingertips, he had reams of men and women more accessible to him than they deserved.

As he popped another piece of popcorn in his mouth, he idly swiped left. Left. Left. Eh, cute enough. Right. Left. Left. Left. He was getting bored again-- Looked ********. Right. Why the ******** did this guy insist on posing with a fish? Left.

Emilia, 25.

Cute.

Right.

His brows lofted when a notification interrupted what was probably his sixtieth swipe left, and he tapped it to follow what was bound to be a more interesting temporary occupation than the fifth man with a fish who had been prefaced by the seventh woman with a picture of her and ten other girls as the front image. (If he couldn't tell who the ******** someone was, he figured by default they were hiding something. He was not ever wrong.)

Emilia.

He tapped through to the message and felt the edges of his lips tug up at a question that actually interested him, but he first went back to her profile to take a closer look. Idle swiping may have meant missing a red flag, and while if he was taking a one-and-done approach he was not sure if he cared about those, he would rather not deal with it today. The good conversation would bring him a better distraction than just a momentary fling that likely would be subpar anyway.

He didn't see any. The photos were appealing, and the description even moreso. Perhaps it matched; her career hinted at some talent for social media.

He went back to the conversation.

Her question was a good sign of a decent conversation already. He pursed his lips and popped them as he thought, before responding as so:

The Hemingway Daiquiri. A favorite of one of our great writers. It's a mix of rum, maraschino liqueur, grapefruit juice, and lime juice. Highly recommend you give it a try if you haven't.

He'd see if she was as curious about the elegance as she appeared.

Yourself?

He moved back to swiping through people endlessly as he waited for her response. This woman looked alright. Right. He looked ... tolerable. It was only a temporary occupation anyway. No need to make him actually converse with him if it was a one-and-done.

Adam almost idly swiped right again before he saw her message.

He moved back to her message chain.

Oh. His brows rose in interest. French Shiraz implied a level of sophistication and elegance he suspected, which was something much more interesting than a man who was only passably interesting to his eyes. He sat back on his couch, his lips curling back into the smile that hardly made it to his eyes. An amusement, nevertheless, and he pondered his response to further this conversation. He didn't need to.

She did.

Promising.

I do. He has good taste in citrus, certainly, but his short sentences pack a powerful punch. Hemingway did not need extensive words to express tragedy or joy.

He crossed one leg over the other as he shifted in his seat. This was proving to be a conversation chain worth him paying attention to. Perhaps this Emilia would prove herself worth his time.

Are you a reader, yourself?

Assuming he was being truthful was always a key, but he had not been presented with any reason to embellish or fluff the truth yet.

He knew he, himself, was a worthy catch. The others had to prove the same to him, and so far, Emilia seemed to be doing her job from that perspective. An influencer spoke to, at least, someone who had the charisma to manipulate an audience. Her taste in reading and alcohol was even better, and he leaned back with an amused tick to his lips as it turned out she had her own degree in literature.

That spoke to that good at that influence if she could know words and brilliant wordsmiths and use that in her own right.

Tolkien is very much between classics and pop culture. The movies made him arguably both, previously more known in literature communities as a man who had made great fantasy epics.

He was ... enjoying this conversation, even if just as temporary entertainment.

It stopped him from pulling up the women and men to swipe through again.

I have read the Simillarion. Fascinating the stories that are in the background of the main series.

Perfect.

He was one of the more cultured people on Tinder, she was correct. His lips twitched upward, and he repositioned on his couch to be a bit more comfortable. This conversation was worth ignoring the ping he got of another person replying to his swipe right with the very unimaginative hey. Did she at least want to try to give him to go off of for ******** sake--

Thank you. Of course, he wasn't about to acknowledge he knew that. You are yourself. Much better than the normal conversation.

So he'd return the flattery, instead.

I appreciate the deep influences of mythology throughout his stories, and other modern works, too. Tolkien's work takes a lot of influence from Norse mythology, which I appreciate. It's a break from the pattern of Greek.

He added, after,

Though my heritage is Mediterranean, so I'm not complaining about Greek influences, either!

... He probably had a family reunion soon, that reminded him. Adam rolled his eyes.

It is funny to me how loved Loki seems now.

In mythology, Loki was a trickster and walked the line between a hero and a villain depending on the light he was put in. With the cinematic universe, he knew conceptually Loki was a villain, but he had never quite come off that way, especially with his extensive fanbase and his own television show on top of that.

No matter.

I actually haven't delved into too much Hawaiian myth. And that was true. He was willing to admit he didn't know things; it made him come off as more humble to the right people, even if it was a false impression. I'll have to read up on it.

And at the rate this conversation was going, he'd have to. If they had multiple rendezvous, he presumed she'd check in on that.

Unless this was more engaging over text than in person...

Mediterrean. My primary heritages are Grecian and Italian. He was fine to keep talking about himself no matter how this turned out. Big family, lots of unnecessary reunions. Usually, about two to four generations back before everyone started marrying and having children here.

And getting divorced, and ******** more people, and having more children...

Relationships were a hassle.

Good restaurants in this area, though.

She wasn't wrong.

Demons were all the rage. The prevalence of shows like Lucifer showed that. The fact that true crime shows had their rabid fanbases and some seemed a bit too into what the culprits offered showed that.

Demons aren't so bad, really. They're mostly part of a religion's mythology to keep people away from doing things that the society considers morally dubious at best. Sometimes, that society is wrong.

He wasn't a Loki fanboy, himself, but he did find the hatred of demonic groupings succubi and incubi amusing at best.

Oh, finally.

That was what he was hoping to read.

I would love to. Much more extensive conversation can be had over a good drink or two. He would need to present himself well enough; maybe he'd do a quick shave before leaving. Send me your address. I can give you a time estimate once I know how far you are.

This evening had gotten much less boring, now.

He was driving.

She was correct to presume he had a car. He had gotten in the habit of bragging about it; it was always a popular hobby of his upper management to talk about the newest car they had been able to procure. His? Adam drove a Benz, not so luxury to be unmanageably expensive at his current wages (no, he did not want a Lamborghini) but still high-end enough to get some nods of admiration. He was truly reaching for the stars if his tastes were already at that level.

... or something.

Adam didn't necessarily care what her opinion was of it, but if she saw it and appreciated it, even better for his position for the evening. He had shaved, was clean in the mirror, and was freshly moisturized. Before leaving, he had also swapped out his comfortable wear for something equally as comfortable but still casual -- a polo shirt and a pair of slacks.

It was, at the least, casual compared to what he wore for work.

He parked the car in the nearest available spot, strolled up to her door, rang the doorbell, and waited.

In his hand, he also had a box of chocolates. Nothing terribly fancy, and he had already had it but she needn't know that, but it also was not necessarily the best etiquette to just show up and take wine without something to offer in turn.

And he was all about the first impressions.