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
Back when we were really struggling for a buck and trying to launch our careers, Frank used to play an open mike night at C’est What on Front Street in Toronto.
One Tuesday evening, as I sat in the corner of the bar in the dark, stretching out a Diet Coke for a full evening, he sang a song I’d never heard him perform before, a Leonard Cohen tune. I’d never even heard him rehearse it.
When he started it, when his voice wrapped itself around the first line, I felt the hair on my arms rise. He was just perfect. His words felt like a prophecy.
He kept singing TONIGHT, WE’LL BE FINE and I believed that we actually WOULD be fine as long as we were together.
Frank scoffed about how I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop…but then he actually proved my shoe theory correct.
The FITTING
After running across four lanes of traffic to get to the KIA, I collapse inside and lock the door behind me like Frank’s chasing me.
But of course, he’s not.
I’m breathing so hard the car starts fogging up. I turn on the defrost and start wiping off the window beside me with an old Kleenex I find in the door pocket.
I have a clear view of the diner doors and want to see where the fuck Frank’s going.
BUT he’s still in LA’s, and by the time I wipe down the driver’s window, he’s sitting down with his friends, ordering from our favourite waitress.
I pinch my arm to keep myself from crying into the wound underneath my eye.
My phone alerts a text.
FRANK: Drive safely.
Eat a dick.
I start the car, pull out into traffic and don’t look back.
Driving up the Don Valley Parkway towards my big fitting, I stop myself from crying seven more times, which I think is probably highly dangerous, but pretty good for my eye wound.
My arm feels bruised from the continuous pinching.
He doesn’t want me anymore. For sure. No takebacksies. My marriage is officially over. I knew it…but now I KNOW know IT.
And for a musician, HIS TIMING IS ABOUT AS SHIT AS CAN BE.
PINCH PINCH PINCH.
For a distraction, I turn on the radio.
SIDEBAR: Do you have any idea how many sad songs and/or love songs there are on the radio and in the world?
Well, let me you right now, there are A LOT. And there’s music EVERYWHERE.
There’s music in places that we don’t clock until we’re heartbroken.
Today, I stopped counting at thirty sad songs, love songs and sad-love songs, and I was only halfway through the day. END OF SIDEBAR
Standing outside of the door to the wardrobe department, I muster my pretend smiling face, because NO ONE wants to start work with someone who’s an emotional wreck.
ME (whispers): I WILL NOT LET THIS MESS UP EVERYTHING I’VE WORKED FOR.
And…ACTION. I throw open the doors, maybe a BIT too dramatically, but hey.
MELANIE: THERE she is!
The show’s amazing costume designer is waiting for me just inside the doors like I’m Visiting Royalty.
Melanie’s a sneaker wearing, sequin skirt sporting, fashionista who never fails to make me wish I had more money and a better sense of how to put a badass outfit together.
If I was wearing what she was wearing, I would look like I was a five year old who dressed themselves in the dark.
She looks endlessly chic.
Melanie also has no spacial awareness or boundaries and pulls me into her “PROTECT THE DOLLS” pink sweatshirt for a fierce hug.
MELANIE: SERIES LEAD!! CHARLIE!! We are all VERY excited about this!
ME: ME TOO!!! LET’S DO THIS!
She cocks her head at me for a split second, but barrels on.
MELANIE: Water? Coffee? Want me to get a PA to get you a Starbucks? Series leads get a Starbucks order, Char!
This is indeed a whole new world.
ME: Uh, maybe just a water thanks…LET’S DO THIS!
Melanie narrows her eyes, looking me up and down like a TSA agent.
I plaster on the biggest smile I can manage. It’s huge. I hope I don’t look like a serial killer. I’m an actress for fuck sakes. ACT!
ME: I’m nervous, Melanie. This is my first really big TV fitting as a series lead…and I just…I wanna look perfect, you know? I know you’ll make me look awesome…but I’m just nervous.
I must be convincing because Melanie summons her fabulous crew of sewers, assistants and shoppers and they whirl around me like something from a Cinderella story. She pulls out a pale yellow pair of flare pants from one of the clothing racks with my character’s name on it.
MELANIE: We’ve decided that yellow will be your theme colour for the first episode! I think you will really look good in this shade!
Almost every expensive, beautiful piece of clothing is gorgeous, which makes the corners of my mouth turn up in the faintest ghost of a smile.
Not the new pretend smile, but a real almost-smile.
This fitting is turning into a way better distraction than the radio. Who knew?
As the gals talk me through dozens of outfits, I still feel absolutely gutted but also…excited. The wardrobe rooms can be a very magical place.
The character I play is a small town, bohemian type of lawyer. She’s cool, witty, wise and funny. I really love playing her and the audiences really responded to her, so I indeed got bumped up from series regular to series lead.
It’s a very big deal for an almost fifty year old actress to have so much screen time, and a huge step up from the first season.
THIS is the dream.
No matter what’s happening with Frank, THIS is what I’ve worked my whole career for.
I let a very TINY sliver of joy shoot up my spine, merging with my ghost of a smile.
Another Note: THIS is actually the best part of my day.
About ten minutes later, I’m standing on a pedestal in the middle of the room looking at myself in a beveled mirror. I’ve put on the yellow flare pants with a frilled white blouse and Melanie was right, they do look good.
The ruffled collar reminds me of one of my favourite old blouses, one of the ones I used to wear back when I sang.
As I study myself in the reflection, I run my hand over the delicate ruffles.
Suddenly, I’m twenty-three years old, standing on the cramped stage of a cabaret bar on Church Street trying out a new song.
A twenty-four year old Frank is sitting on a chair beside me, accompanying me on his guitar as I sing the end of the chorus…
ME: This time it’s love, my foolish heart.
That night was the first time I told him I loved him.
I’d not MEANT to tell him I loved him, it just happened.
As I sang the lyric, I turned back to him so I could introduce him for his guitar solo and I looked him right in the eyes, and he took me at my word.
ME: This time it’s love, my foolish heart.
After we left stage, Frank crowded in with me inside the ancient bathroom that I used to get ready in. He stood behind me, wrapped me in his arms and looked straight into my eyes in the bathroom mirror.
FRANK: I love you, too. I really do love you, Charlie.
And I didn’t dispute it, because he was so…so…happy.
I REALLY liked him. I felt I must be close to loving him but what the fuck does love even feel like? I had no idea. This must be love and if not, I was obviously going to get there…for sure.
So, instead of saying anything back to him, I just turned into him and kissed him.
God, I’d not thought about that in years.
We had good sex that night. I DO remember that.
Standing, looking at myself in the mirror, that moment from my life just washes over me.
It’s so clear, I can almost smell Frank’s soap.
MELANIE: Hellloooo? Charlie? What do you think?
Melanie and her two assistants are staring at me expectantly in the mirror.
MELANIE: Do you hate it? You hate it. She hates it.
The assistants rush to grab another outfit.
ME: Oh no…no…it’s so beautiful!! I was just imagining it on screen, in my head. No, it’s gorgeous, Melanie…gorgeous.
I bust out one of my pretend smiles. I can tell that this time Melanie’s not convinced but she decides to keep going. For the rest of our fitting she keeps an eye on me.
But I make it through the day and maybe no one at work is the wiser…except for Melanie. She knows something is up but decided to let me be, for which I will be forever grateful.
I get home, strip off all my clothes as I walk towards my bed and allow myself to finally fall apart as I go.
Frank Campbell and I are never going to be together again.
I get underneath the bedcovers and dab at my wounded eye with the sheet.
I make the conscious decision to NOT drink anymore booze, ignore ALL texts from everyone asking how I am and let myself run the conversation with Frank over in my head one million times as I try not to cry and stare at the ceiling of the tiny bedroom.
Yeah.
Written by Sharron Matthews
Toronto, Ontario
June 24th, 2025
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And here’s TONIGHT WE’LL BE FINE performed by Teddy Thomson