47 on TINDER
by Sharron Matthews
This is a work of fiction.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
PART ONE: THE FUCKENING
I’d never listened to Van Morrison before Frank.
I’d never listened to a lot of music before Frank.
We must have listened to INTO THE MYSTIC together at least ten thousand times.
Huh. I never really thought about it before, but after Frank and I started dating, I stopped listening to music that I loved and instead always chose music that he loved when we got in Mona for a drive.
He always told me that the driver got to pick the music, and he drove most of the time…so…Van Morrison it was.
Now, I listen to this song before I leave the house to see if I’m capable of being with other humans…but the Gretchen Wilson version…because fuck him.
KEYS to the KIA
I stayed on the bathroom floor all night.
At 8:00am, my phone alarm went off because this morning I had to leave the tiny, stupid apartment.
I know.
I was outside in world for what seemed like hours.
HOURS.
There was an appointment I couldn’t change, also, I HAD to get my roots done.
When you’re an actress, you can’t fuck with your appearance, no matter the disaster. This truth comes with age and a mortgage.
So, OUT THERE I went, interacting with people, like some sort of weird, pretend human.
One of those people I had to see…was Frank.
It was about as awful as I imagined it would be.
The physical and emotional transformation from floor-of-the-tiny-stupid-bathroom Charlie to almost-outdoor-worthy Charlie required a Herculean effort, and I STILL looked like the bottom of a shoe.
Acting like a person whose life isn’t totally fucked up is the hardest role I’ve taken on since I played a seventy year old German maid in theatre school when I was eighteen.
The outside world was a shock to the system.
It was a warm winter day, so everyone was chatting on their phones, drinking fancy coffees, laughing with each other, and looking peaceful for no apparent reason.
AND I stood in the middle of ALL of them wanting to scream and scream and kick shit and scream.
When I greeted my longtime hair guru, Jim, I pretended nothing was happening.
On the way there, I’d decided to act like I was totally fine. I’m an actress, how hard could it be?
As I walked through the glass doors to his fancy salon, Jim looked me up and down, closed up his Tupperware chopped salad, and led me to the back room, where I promptly fell to pieces.
He fixed up my roots in that back room, where no one could see me.
Instead of his salad, he ate up every inch of my shitty tale, wiped my tears and snot and told me Frank was dead to him…and meant it.
JIM: Do you…Charlie, do you want me to give you bangs? Because I will. It’s the least I can do.
God bless, Jim.
At least my hair looks good.
I declined the bangs. Jim was relieved.
Much later, after my first shitty day out in the world was finally done, I literally ran straight back into the blessed silence of the tiny, stupid apartment.
Closing the front door behind me, I dropped everything in my arms onto the floor with a loud and satisfying thud, then for about twenty minutes I stood there at the front door…in the dark.
As my nervous system settled, I searched for the light switch AND my hand bumped into a little shelf. Something clanged onto the cheap laminate floor.
When the lights came on, I saw the keys to our KIA lying on the ground.
Frank must have left them on the shelf after he dropped the car off earlier in the evening.
He’d placed the keys JUST inside the door.
I imagine he stayed as close to the entrance as possible, so he wouldn’t have to come all the way into the tiny, stupid apartment that stunk of my scotch barf and his lingering bullshit.
At some point during those twenty minutes I stood in the dark, I realized that this tiny, stupid, now smelly apartment has become my safe place. Which is good, because I’m gonna have to keep living here till I can get my shit together.
I stared down at the car keys for a moment, then walked past them to throw open the dirty patio door, taking off every piece of clothing I was wearing as I went and leaving it where it landed.
Me and this place needed an airing out.
We’d made a plan to meet up after my hair appointment, in a neutral place, to talk about all the grown up things that need to be maintained through this event, because business… like hair growth and that Celine Dion song from Titanic…inexplicably goes on.
Credit cards, bill payments, insurance payments, bank accounts, new apartment rental fees and a mortgage all still need to be paid.
Besides renting the tiny, stupid apartment, Frank and I own a beautiful house. I house that I love, and always proclaimed I would happily die inside of, in a small town called New Brighton.
While we could just barely afford the second place in Toronto, Frank had (finally) gotten a new job in the city, and we decided to bite the bullet.
This seemed like a good move for the Wood-Campbell’s, a really hopeful move.
During today’s meeting, Frank announced that he’s looking to rent an apartment from his friend Hal until we…figure out what happens next.
That’s how he said it.
FRANK: …until we…figure out what happens next.
Now, we’ll have three places and not nearly enough money for all of them, which is NOT a great move…until we…figure out what happens next.
Before I arrive at our appointed meeting place this afternoon, I pull the KIA over to the side of the road and type out a LIST of things into my phone I want to remember to say to him.
I’m afraid that once I see him, I’ll forget everything I need to talk about and lose my shit.
And I do NOT want to seem pathetic, or forget anything that would require more contact between us, at least not while I’m still raw as meat.
Though I suddenly hate him, I also love him, which is just about the worst TWO-THINGS-CAN-BE-TRUE-AT-ONCE thing ever.
Staying away from him as much as possible seems to be key to maintaining what sanity I have left.
As I finish my list of marital administration points, I pause for one moment and then type in…
BE BRAVE
…to remind myself.
My probable throat cancer clicks.
I put my hands over my eyes and, MUCH TO MY CONTINUING FRUSTRATION, loudly fall apart.
Again.
For the hundredth time in two days.
Parked by the curb, on some Toronto street I don’t remember ever being on before, I continue to out-of-control cry.
People are staring, but not TOO much, it IS Toronto, after all.
This has to stop, Charlie.
Now.
You will NOT cry in front of him.
You will NOT.
I wipe at my face, close my eyes and, make another list…a mental list.
THE SUM TOTAL OF MY MARRIAGE TO FRANK CAMPBELL
Fifteen good years
Two okay years
Eight challenging years
Two shitty years
Frank NEVER wanted to go to counselling, no matter how many times I pushed the subject during the last ten years.
And I pushed it.
Then yesterday evening, as we planned today’s upcoming meeting on text…my responses delivered from the bathroom floor…Frank floated the idea of going to couples therapy.
ME: WHAT!?!? We’re way past counselling, Frank. Why would I do that?
FRANK: I really want to talk about us. I want to try and work this out and if we can’t work this out, I’d like us to be still friends. I really think we could get past this somehow, Charlie.
Frank calling me by my name, ON TEXT, gave me mental whiplash.
He’s called me BUB or BABE for years.
FOR YEARS AND YEARS.
I had no idea how to respond, to the question of couples therapy or the shape of my name on his texts, so I stay silent.
When he left the tiny, stupid apartment two and a half days ago with my favourite suitcase…I’ll get to that…he hadn’t said if he still wanted to be with me or if he wanted to be with this new person.
The tiny sliver of hope I’m still harbouring makes me hate myself.
BUT it’s confusing.
HE’S confusing.
Also, I NOW know that he’s a pretty skilled liar, a new reality I’m still trying to wrap my head around.
What’s Frank up to?
Frank Campbell’s always been a bit cowardly.
There. I said it.
To be fair, EVERYONE is a bit cowardly in their own way, BUT I want to focus on Frank’s cowardliness for a second.
Controversial Thought:
I think most couples don’t really process the things about their partners that are REAL flaws. To become a head cheerleader in someone’s life, you can be aware of something shitty about them BUT not really build a belief system around it. It’s just something about them that you kinda ignore.
Being that Frank can be a bit cowardly…god, it feels so fucking good to write that…I’m pretty sure he wants to lead me to his therapist, so he can bring our marriage to a sad conclusion with the help of a mediator.
Some place where I might not be able to choke him to death because there’s another person present.
Might.
No, I don’t think he wants me anymore, which feels real and absolutely devastating.
The night Frank dropped his cheating-bomb AND the next morning before he left the stupid apartment with my favourite suitcase, I kept trying to get him to admit he wants to be without me, but he wouldn’t.
He just would not do it.
NUT UP, FRANK.
Parked by the curb on a street I don’t know, I start to scream and hit the steering wheel, accidentally honking the horn a few times.
ME: NUT UP, FRANK!!!! FUCKING NUT UP!!! (HONK! HONK!)
Someone walking by looks inside the car, concerned.
I wipe my eyes and, because I’m too proud not to, fix up my face.
Taking a DEEP breath, I start the KIA up and I go.
Rounding a corner, I spy our other car…a big old silver Volvo…parked in front of a little community park, on a cul de sac.
The back of his head is visible through the rear view window and I can see he’s texting.
I’m disgusted to discover that part of me’s looking forward to seeing him.
My throat clicks over and over again as I park.
He keeps texting.
I make a bargain with myself that if I get through whatever’s about to happen without crying, I can eat chips and dip till I puke.
I get out of the KIA, walk twenty-two steps to the other car, open the passenger door, and slide into a seat I’ve sat in for about twelve years.
Volvo’s last forever.
The door slams beside me and we’re quiet.
We don’t even look at each other.
Everything in the Volvo smells like married, looks like married, sounds like married and when he finally turns to me…
FRANK: You got your hair done, looks good. How are you…Charlie?
He stumbles on my name.
When I don’t respond, because my clicking throat wouldn’t let me, Frank just starts talking.
He tells the SAME long, rehearsed story….AGAIN.
He broke our marriage, he’s sorry, I’m the strongest person he knows, we can get past this…but this time he adds…
FRANK: …and I love you.
I sit still as death, my IPHONE list clutched in my sweaty hands as he continues on, like what he just said was nothing.
He loves me.
THIS is the first time he’s said those words, UNPROMPTED, in probably two years.
I know this because he used to sing it, say it, yell it and whisper it every fucking day.
It’s pretty obvious when something like that stops, and the same amount of obvious when it starts again.
I’ve been waiting for him to say I LOVE YOU since the night he first claimed to break our marriage, but now it feels haunted, manipulative and conditional.
No one who loves someone does THIS to them…for eight months.
While Frank reprises his kitchen performance of almost four days ago, I stare out the passenger seat window at the small park, where young, single people are bundled up, throwing balls for their sweater wearing dogs and 30-ish year old underdressed hipster-type parents are pushing their snowsuit engulfed kids on swings.
Will I ever feel normal again?
FRANK: I should have taken you to Florida…I should have…I know that now…
How the fuck did I let him go to Florida, alone?
What happened to me?
When did I start requiring so little in every way, in return for my love?
Around the same time he stopped saying I LOVE YOU without me saying it first, he stopped hugging me back…like REALLY hugging me back…and we were champion huggers.
He started to hug me like I was his Mom, or a friend.
And the I LOVE YOU and the HUGS are just two hard losses I can think of off the top of my head.
Oh, wow, for the first time in days, I can almost think calmly.
Somehow, just hearing his voice…hearing him talk and talk inside our ancient Volvo…helps me sort through some of this shit.
Frank’s the white noise that’s been missing, to help me get some clarity. Which makes all the sense in the world.
As he gets to about act three of the “Ballad of Frank Campbell: Emotional Cheater”, I still stare at the park but don’t really see it, sorting and shifting through the last eight months, the last few years, the last ten years, watching him get farther and farther away from me, while I try to cleave onto him like a barnacle.
Day after day, year after year, I allowed myself to be content with less and less, until one day I found myself worn down to a place in which I believed that we would be okay if he sent me a three word text.
Three words that weren’t I LOVE YOU, but usually, WHERE ARE YOU…which makes a lot of sense, now.
The sudden silence in the car shakes me out of my reverie and I turn to look at Frank.
Which I find very hard to do.
While I struggle to make eye contact, his phone starts pinging, lights up, and he quickly turns it upside down on his leg.
Finances.
Looking down at my own phone, I start talking about finances, about our mortgage, about the car payment, about how much his rent might be.
Frank looks pissed off and relieved at the same time.
I’d already decided before I came today, that I will NOT let Frank’s fuckery mess with the business, the financial, or the work part of my life.
I’ve worked too fucking hard to get to where I am.
Right now, this was the driving force behind whatever sanity I’ve managed to hang onto in the Volvo, as I save the thinks I’ve just unpacked for later
Scrolling through my notes, I get into the thick of what we need to do to keep us afloat under the circumstances, clinging onto the business part of our relationship like Rose did that door she wouldn’t let Jack get on at the end of the Titanic movie.
The Titanic movie.
Throat click.
Frank and I saw Titanic at Eglinton Town Square a million years ago.
After the movie ended, I cried so hard that we stayed LONG after the credits rolled, and I had to sit down about five times on the way to the car, which he indulged AND thought was hysterical.
When we were on the way home, when my eyes had finally dried up, Frank put his hand on my leg…
FRANK: You know who we’d be? We’d be that old couple… the ones that clung to each other in that tiny ship bed, as the water rushed into their cabin…together into the jaws of death. That’s you and me, Babe.
WE would be them, he was so sure. The thought made him smile, and squeeze my leg.
I nodded my head and made agreeable noises, BUT I KNEW that my survival instinct would NEVER let me be them.
Shouldn’t we try to escape, instead?
I would have found a way off of the Titanic.
Which is what I’m going to do RIGHT FUCKING NOW.
Maybe with Frank, but most probably without him.
The continued pinging of Frank’s phone brings me back to the Volvo, and I finally ask him to turn his notifications off.
Pointedly.
I know who the texts are from.
When I’m done talking, I’m a bit dizzy and absolutely spent…to the bone.
I’ve not slept or ate properly for three days and exhaustion washes over me like a heavy blanket.
Scrolling down the phone to make sure I’ve covered everything, I see…
BE BRAVE
ME: You know what, I’m beyond tired. I’m gonna call an UBER, leave the KIA and come for it tomorrow.
I start to order a car on my phone.
FRANK: I’ll drive it to the apartment, and leave the keys for you, don’t worry about it. I’ll drive you home right now and come back for it.
He offers me this gesture like he is handing me a golden egg.
I stare at him, blinking.
Home.
ME: Sure…thanks. But I’m going to Devon’s first…just to…well…she is making me some food…and she wants to see me for herself…
I trail off, far too tired to justify anything else and hating myself for saying SURE.
FRANK: Let me take you there. Of course, I can take you to Devon’s. No worries.
No worries.
God.
Just before we pull away from the sad, beside-the-park spot, he turns his notifications back on, and receives a text from Devon asking where I am.
Devon’s a literal sister to ME and has been since I was twenty years old. Devon was mine before she was ours, and she’s none too pleased with Frank.
Frank reads the rest of text from her and whatever it says made him severely pissed off.
FRANK (clicks tongue, while still staring at phone): I just wish people wouldn’t take sides.
And quietly, ever so quietly…
ME: That might have been possible if you hadn’t cheated on me for eight months. People WILL take sides…you did this, Frank. YOU did.
THIS is the most direct thing I’ve said about his cheating since he walked out the tiny, stupid apartment door, with my favourite suitcase.
Frank looks terse, a state I recognize, which is almost more comfortable for me than the I LOVE YOU.
FRANK: We were so respectful the night I told you everything…can we try to stay…respectful…
Suddenly I scream…
Me: I WASN’T BEING RESPECTFUL, FRANK!! I WAS IN SHOCK!! I WAS IN FUCKING SHOCK!! YOU LIED TO ME FOR EIGHT MONTHS!!! YOU WENT TO FLORIDA AND KISSED A FUCKING LIFE COACH!!! ON YOUR FUCKING FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY!!! YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!!! THAT’S NOT FUCKING RESPECTFUL AT ALL!!! YOU DID THIS!!! PEOPLE WHO LOVE PEOPLE DON’T DO THIS!!! JUST…JUST FUCK OFF!!!
Now Frank’s a bit shocked.
I gasp and click and gasp and click. I wonder if he’s gonna kick me out of one of my own cars, a thought which BLOWS my mind.
He starts the Volvo and drives.
We stay quiet till he drops me off.
When the car stops, we both sit still.
I looked down at his hand on the gearshift.
BE FUCKING BRAVE.
I open the door and get out.
It’s still really hard to leave him, even when he is being a total asshole.
At the door to Devon’s place, after he’s peeled away as much as a Volvo can, I remember that Frank has my car keys.
Will he take the KIA back to the tiny, stupid apartment, or will he punish me for being real?
I barely care.
Devon’s apartment is on Harbord Street in downtown Toronto, overtop of a hip cupcake shop, so it always smells like dessert.
I climb up the stairs to her place like I’m wearing cement shoes, overwhelmed by both the full aroma of sugary things and how utterly hollow I feel. Both things make me nauseous.
By the time I get half way up the stairs, I’m heaving with sobs and Devon’s partner, Joshua comes down and helps me up the rest of the way, basically carrying me up to the apartment.
Devon wraps me in her arms and I cry like I haven’t since I was about fourteen years old.
DEVON: Charlie, it’s okay. I’ve got you. We’ve got you.
And thank god, because this is the kind of cry I cannot allow myself to have alone, because I’m afraid I might not come out the other side intact.
Joshua, who is a giant of a man, softly takes me from Devon and wraps me in his arms, like a bear.
For the first time in three days, I finally feel safe.
Which loosens every screw inside me.
by Sharron Matthews
Toronto, Ontario
June 11th, 2025
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AND HERE is INTO THE MYSTIC, performed by Gretchen Wilson