This Isn’t a Dating App

A Story

When Dave downloaded the app, he told himself it was purely scientific.

Not science science … more like the kind where you finally admit your friends might be right about something, and you test their theory so you can stop hearing about it.

“Just trust the app,” his buddy Marco had said, leaning over a greasy engine bay like it was a confession booth. “The matches are amazing.”

“Yeah,” Dave had replied. “Amazing like those ‘easy fix’ videos where the guy swaps an entire transmission off-camera.”

Marco wiped his hands on a rag. “No, seriously. It’s different. It’s …like …accurate.”

“Everything’s ‘accurate’ until it matches me with someone who thinks engine oil is a skincare product.”

Marco grinned. “Just fill it out. Be honest. Don’t do your usual thing where you pretend you’re ‘fine’ with anything.”

Dave had scoffed at that, because he was totally fine with anything. Except: he wasn’t. He liked vintage cars. He liked people who didn’t panic when the radiator steamed like an angry kettle. He liked omelets … specifically the kind his mom used to make, the kind that made the whole kitchen smell tasty.

He was in his twenties, an auto mechanic with oil under his nails and a soft spot he kept tucked behind jokes. He wanted to settle down. He wanted kids someday. He wanted someone his own age who could smile through tough times with him, someone who didn’t treat life like it was a constant audition.

So he opened the app and started typing.

Welcome to Cosmo-Local Dating, the screen said, in a friendly font that looked likeevery other dating app.

Dave built a profile that sounded like a person instead of a resume.

I’m Dave. I fix cars for a living. I love vintage stuff … the smell of old leather, the click of a well-made latch, the way a machine can be stubborn but honest. I want a family someday. I love omelets. I’m looking for someone who can smile through tough times with me.

The app asked questions that seemed normal at first.

• What’s your ideal weekend?

• What do you value most in a partnership?

Then it got… oddly specific.

• What can you reliably offer?

Dave paused. Offer?

He typed: My time. My skills. A ride if you’re stranded. Fixing things. Listening, sometimes. Making breakfast.

Another prompt popped up.

• What do you need right now?

Need?

He almost wrote a girlfriend and then stopped, suddenly aware of how weird it felt to try to order love off a menu. He wrote instead:

• Connection. A future. Someone to share life with. Also … someone who likes eggs.

He hit save.

The screen swirled. A little animation of two dots circling each other like they were about to kiss.

Then, immediately:

• You have a match!

Dave blinked. “Already?”

A little banner slid down: Match found. [Message Now].

His friends’ voices echoed in his head …trust the app… and without thinking too hard (which was his usual strategy for anything involving feelings), he tapped the [Message Now] button.

He texted: Hey .. Cosmo-Local match. Want to meet?

A response came back before he could overthink it.

Yes. Lunch? I’m free today. The Saffron Spoon, 1:00. We can sit by the window, second table, left side.

Dave stared at the phone. That was… decisive.

He typed back: Sure. I’ll be there.

He didn’t look at her profile. He didn’t even ask her name. The app said match and his buddies said trust and Dave was tired of feeling like the only person in the world not in on a secret.

At 12:58, he pushed open the door to The Saffron Spoon, the bell above it chiming happily. The restaurant smelled like garlic and toasted bread and something sweet that made his stomach soften in spite of itself.

He scanned the room.

Second table by the window. Left side.

An elderly Asian-looking woman sat there, hands folded neatly, a cane leaning against her chair. Her hair was silver, pulled back in a clip. Her jacket was a gentle purple. She looked up at him with a smile that was calm and unhurried …. like she had nowhere else to be and nothing to prove.

Dave stopped so abruptly a server nearly walked into him.

His first thought was: I’ve been catfished by someone’s grandmother!

His second thought was: Maybe I typed “omelets” and the app heard “orphans” and sent me a guardian?

He pulled out his phone so fast it almost flew out of his hand and opened Cosmo-Local Dating.

There it was, right at the top of the match alert he’d ignored:

[non-romantic]

Dave stared at it like it might rearrange itself into something that made sense.

“Non… romantic?” he muttered. “Non-romantic dating app!?”

The woman watched him with patient curiosity, like she’d seen a lot of people get surprised by life and knew it usually worked out better if you didn’t embarrass them for it.

Dave hovered beside the table, caught between bolting and sitting down like a grown-up.

She smiled wider. “David?”

“Uh.” He blinked. “Yes. I’m Dave.”

“I am Fan,” she said, her accent gentle. “I’m from Taiwan.”

“Hi,” Dave said, still holding his phone like it was evidence. “I think… there’s been a mix-up.”

Fan’s smile faltered for half a second, and then she let out a small laugh … soft, surprised, a little embarrassed.

“Oh,” she said. “I thought also it is dating app too as first.”

Dave exhaled, relieved in a weird way. “You… you did?”

Fan nodded. “My neighbor tell me, ‘Try it. It match good.’ I fill out, I write …. ” she waved a hand, as if the details were too much to hold. “I say, I am widow. My husband die twenty years ago. I say I like music. I say I want learn cello. Then … ping!” She mimed an alert with her fingers. “It say match. I think, okay, universe maybe funny.”

Dave laughed, a sound that surprised him because it wasn’t defensive. It was just… real.

Fan gestured to the chair across from her. “You sit? We already here. We can eat. No hanky-panky. Just lunch.”

Dave hesitated. The part of him that was lonely wanted to run. The part of him that was raised right (by a mom who’d made eggs feel like love) sat down.

“Okay,” he said. “Lunch.”

They ordered. Fan spoke slowly, carefully, like she was choosing words that would land gently.

She told him she’d lived in the U.S. for years. She told him about the small apartment she kept tidy, about the way the days could feel long when no one needed you. She told him about her cane and how she hated using it but hated falling more.

Dave told her about the garage, about customers who brought in cars as if they were injured pets. He told her about vintage engines and how they had personalities.

Fan’s eyes brightened. “You like old things.”

“I do,” Dave said. “They make sense. New stuff… it’s like everything’s sealed shut. You can’t fix anything without a password.”

Fan nodded, deeply pleased. “Yes. Everything now like secret.”

A plate arrived: Dave’s omelet, golden and folded, with toast and a tiny cup of salsa.

Dave stared at it and felt, unexpectedly, disappointed.

Fan noticed immediately. Not in a nosy way … in the way someone notices when a plant needs water.

“You don’t like?” she asked.

“No, it’s… fine.” Dave poked at it with his fork. “It’s just… my mom used to make these omelets when I was a kid. Like, real omelets. She’d mix eggs with vegetables and prawns and then smother it with some sauce. It sounds weird but it was …” His throat tightened on the word. “It was the best.”

Fan’s eyes widened, and a delighted little gasp escaped her.

“Egg Foo Young!” she said.

Dave blinked. “Egg Foo… what?”

“Egg Foo Young.” Fan spoke the words like she was handing him a key. “You are describing Egg Foo Young. That is my favorite too.”

Dave stared at her. The restaurant noise dulled around the edges, as if the world had leaned in to listen.

“My mom used to make it,” he said, quietly. “She called it … she didn’t call it anything. She just… made it.”

Fan’s expression softened. “Someday,” she said, with gentle certainty, “I make you some.”

Dave’s eyes burned. He looked down at his plate quickly, pretending he had something in his eye.

It wasn’t what he thought he was looking for.

But it was exactly what he needed.

When they stood to leave, Fan took a moment to gather her cane and purse. Dave automatically reached out to steady the chair, to move her cane so it wouldn’t slip, to hold the door open without making it a performance.

Outside, sunlight warmed the sidewalk. Fan looked up at him.

“We meet again?” she asked.

Dave didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

Back home, he replayed the lunch like it was a song he couldn’t stop humming. He opened the app, this time actually reading Fan’s profile.

Widow. From Taiwan. Loves music. Wants to learn cello. Likes egg dishes. Misses community.

Dave smiled, then frowned at the little label that still sat beside her name:

[non-romantic]

“Still rude,” he muttered. “As if romance is the only kind of match that matters.”

His phone buzzed again.

You have a match!

This time, the profile popped up immediately. A girl his age. Bright eyes. Short hair. A smudge of grease on her cheek like she’d wiped her hand without thinking.

Susan, her name said.

Under interests: Vintage cars. Learning. Parks. Honest conversations.

Dave felt his heartbeat do that annoying hopeful thing.

He read further.

Under needs: A mechanic I can trust. My truck is dying.

Under offers: Cello lessons.

Dave squinted. “Cello lessons?”

He laughed out loud, because of course.

They agreed to meet at a park. It was one of those parks that tried really hard to be charming: a little pond, a few geese with the confidence of landlords, and a parking lot full of cars that had lived longer than some of the teenagers skating nearby.

Susan walked up right on time, wearing boots and a jacket that smelled faintly like pine and engine oil.

“Dave?” she asked.

“That’s me,” he said, trying not to look too eager. “Susan?”

“Yep.” She held out her hand. Her grip was firm and honest. Then, almost immediately, she said, “Just so you know … I’m not interested in men.”

Dave froze mid-smile.

Susan watched his face, amused but kind. “You’re doing the math.”

“I’m …” Dave cleared his throat. “Okay. Uh. Cool. Thanks for telling me.”

She tilted her head. “You thought this was …”

“A dating app,” Dave finished, helplessly.

Susan snorted. “Yeah, so did I, at first. Then I got matched with a retired electrician and a woman who teaches math to adults. And I was like… either this app is chaotic, or it’s smarter than me.”

Dave laughed, relief rushing in. “I got matched with an elderly widow.”

Susan’s expression softened. “That’s kind of… sweet, actually.”

“It was,” Dave admitted, and then surprised himself by adding, “It really was.”

Susan jerked her head toward the parking lot. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

She led him between rows of cars until they stopped beside a beautiful old Ford International Pickup. The paint was faded in a way that felt like history, not neglect. The body had dents that looked earned. The engine, when Susan popped the hood, looked like it had been through a war and come back stubborn.

Dave’s chest tightened.

“My dad had one like this,” he said, quietly. “Same model. He had to sell it when things got… rough.”

Susan nodded, as if she understood rough like it was a familiar landscape. “This one needs a lot of work,” she said. “And I really don’t have the money to pay for it now. Any chance you would trade for cello lessons?”

Dave leaned closer, listening to the engine the way you listen to someone’s voice when you’re trying to tell if they’re lying or just scared.

He could fix this. He could bring it back.

He also heard, suddenly, Fan’s voice: I want learn cello.

Dave straightened.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll trade.”

Susan brightened. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Dave said, then added, “But I want you to teach Fan the cello. Not me.”

Susan blinked. “Fan?”

Dave grinned. “Long story. She’s… she’s my non-romantic match.”

Susan laughed so hard she had to lean on the hood of the truck. “This app is wild.”

“No,” Dave said, feeling something steady settle in his chest. “It’s… it’s kind of brilliant.”

~*~

The next day, Dave went to Fan’s apartment. He knocked, and before she could even open the door, he heard it … music, uneven and human, with a bow squeaking like it was learning how to be brave.

When Fan opened the door, she looked flushed with joy.

Inside, Susan stood with a cello tucked awkwardly against her, and Fan sat nearby, watching with the devotion of someone witnessing a miracle.

Susan glanced at Dave. “Okay,” she said. “This is harder than it looks.”

Fan laughed, covering her mouth. “You do good! You do good!”

Dave stepped in quietly and sat on the couch, letting the sound wash over him. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t perfect. But it was alive.

After a while, Susan packed up and headed out, promising she’d come back next week. Fan waved at the door for a long time, as if the goodbye itself was a little practice of hope.

Then she turned to Dave, eyes shining.

“You hungry?” she asked.

Dave swallowed. “Always.”

Fan tied an apron around her waist like it was armor, then pulled out eggs, vegetables, prawns. She moved around her kitchen with practiced grace, even with the cane leaning nearby.

As the pan warmed, the smell rose … oil, onion, something familiar enough to make Dave’s throat tighten again.

Fan poured the egg mixture in. It sizzled. It puffed. She flipped it with confidence that made Dave grin.

Then she made the sauce (brown, glossy, a little sweet) and smothered the omelet the way Dave remembered.

She slid a plate toward him.

“Egg Foo Young,” she said, proudly.

Dave took a bite.

His eyes filled instantly, and he didn’t even try to hide it.

Fan patted his hand, not asking questions, just staying with him in the moment like that was what caring looked like.

Outside the window, the afternoon light softened the world. Inside, in a small apartment that smelled like food and music and something like healing, Dave chewed slowly, tasting a memory he’d thought he’d lost.

On his phone, forgotten on the table, Cosmo-Local Dating quietly updated itself.

A small line of text appeared under today’s activity:

• Loop fulfilled: Cello lessons ↔ Vintage car repair ↔ Egg Foo Young.

Then, without fanfare, the app began doing what mycorrhizal networks do beneath forests and gardens … learning from what had worked, noticing what had healed, and routing paths across a million more loops.

And for the first time in a long time, Dave didn’t feel like he was waiting for life to start.

He was already in it.