It isn't exactly storybook to say that Yael and I met on a dating app. We didn't bump heads bending for a fallen pencil. Our hands didn't brush reaching for the same esoteric novel. No, we were just two people, sitting on our respective toilets, swiping our thumbs at strangers. And though the method by which we met isn’t the stuff of songs, there is romance in the fact that, amidst a swamp (not a sea) of dating profiles, Yael and I swiped right on each other four times. The app was called Loop, a relatively new addition to the smorgasbord of dating apps. Loop allows friends to set friends up with friends—a refreshing idea borrowed from 1990s IRL dating culture—and Yael and I both had *a lot* of friends who were eager to set us up. And so they did. Four people suggested Yael and I date each other: Yael's friends Ariel and Naomi, my friend Jonathan, and some rando named Mollie who neither of us really knew but was somehow connected to both of us through the app. "This is a good sign," I thought, and tapped to read Yael's profile. This is what it said: Doctor, basketball, tea enthusiast, painting, adventurous, intellectually curious. Looking for someone to build me bookshelves to support my uncontrollable reading habits. I liked that she was smart and sporty (and a doctah!). And she was so cute, with a bright, sincere smile. There wasn’t an ounce of pretension (or worse, ennui) in her pretty face. I swiped right. Then again. And again. And again. And so did she. On our first date, we went swing dancing, where I made an inappropriate number of swinging-related jokes and she showed off her two left feet. At the end of the night, I gave her a kiss, which she returned, reluctantly. On our second date, we went to the Guggenheim, where we played one of my favorite games, “Is this art?” We decided that a tangle of rusty wires wrapped around an old, broken microwave was, in fact…not art, and laughed our way out of the museum. As we walked down 5th Avenue, I noticed Yael ogling a Mister Softee truck. “Do you want ice cream?” I asked. “Yes, please,” she responded. “What kind of ice cream do you want?” I continued. Pregnant pause. Scarlet cheeks. Sheepish grin. “Chocolate ice cream with rainbow sprinkles.” Not a minute later, Yael’s cheeks, formerly red, were coated with a layer of milk-chocolatey brown, along with her lips, hands, and clothes. On our third date, we played basketball at an urban park on the Upper East Side. A couple of street youths challenged us to a game of “twos,” which we politely declined. Yael then trounced me in several games of 1-on-1 and HORSE, leaving me with sore ankles and a bruised ego. Every subsequent date has produced another story that we still laugh about. We jumped in ball pits at balloon museums, rode rickety roller coasters at amusement parks, shared near-death experiences on volcanic islands, and let our eyes glaze over watching reality TV. Over time, the stories started to blend together into a shared narrative, a life arc, a “story of us.” We were together. I forget the rest.