Milestones
by Gladys Smith
Joyce always tried to do everything right. She brushed her teeth twice a day, rounded up at checkout, tried to practice active peeing, and held her breath when walking through cigarette smoke. She recycled and avoided Red 40 and called her parents on Sundays. When she turned twenty-eight years old, surrounded by insipid co-workers and assorted organic crostatas, she decided it was time to download a dating app. Many of the women at her office—in fact, eleven-point-five of the twenty—were either engaged or married. Nine of those eleven-point-five had dated their now-husbands for under two years before their wedding. If she’d done her math correctly and if the universe were in her favor, she could be married by thirty, with a few spare months to first do some online perusal.
She started with Tinder, which several of the women at work had recommended. She chose a profile photo—her, in a tasteful blouse, smiling on a park bench—and began methodically fortifying her profile with fun facts, biographical data, and future goals. She was five-foot-five, had a pet bonsai, enjoyed bike rides, and evening television. She was going to have either two children or zero. Eventually, Joyce set her phone down, satisfied with her work, and waited for the first ping.
Two hours later, as she lay drowsily in bed, the phone screen lit up. She rolled to her right, stretching for the bedside table, snatched her phone and opened the app. With one eye cracked open, she read: Kevin, age thirty-six, five-foot eight. Journalist. He was a self-proclaimed beer connoisseur, with family peppered across Germany and Ireland. He had a toothy smile and a clean-shaven face. Joyce rubbed her blurred eyes and swiped right—she wasn’t really all that picky. He’d do just fine.
A week later, after a few nondescript back-and-forths and an exchange of numbers, they’d arranged to meet at an Italian place four blocks from her apartment. It was a chilly February evening, and so Joyce donned a high-necked sweater dress and boots. She arrived at the restaurant at 7:02—an admissible 134 seconds late. There was no sight of Kevin. She sat down, unperturbed, and ordered a glass of wine. Nibbling on the complimentary baguette, she wondered if such delays were common on first dates.
By 7:29, the bread was gone. Joyce had one finger in the olive oil dish, swirling it around thoughtfully. It occurred to her that she didn’t mind being stood up, only that she would rather be home watching TV instead. Just as she was pondering a season finale to release next weekend, Kevin entered with a blast of chilly wind, apologizing and cursing the lack of parking. Joyce blinked as he shed his leather jacket and awkwardly descended into the opposing chair. He was considerably pudgier around the midsection than his profile had suggested, and his flaxen hair was thinning—she could tell he’d aggressively gelled the remaining wisps into place. “It’s quite all right,” she heard herself saying as he began rifling through the menu. She started flipping through hers, too, despite having decided on her entree long ago.
By 7:51, they were tucking in—him into his fettuccine alfredo, and her into her paccheri. He was telling her about his upbringing between slurps. He described how hardworking his mother was, his college days, his work as a freelance journalist—he kept a sports blog—his fear of being gold-dug and appreciation for the little things in life. Joyce focused on spearing another tubular paccheri into halves. In truth, she was already quite full of baguette.
When she looked up again, there was Alfredo sauce congealing in the corners of his lips. He was talking about football, gesticulating wildly, and each time he raised his arms a centimeter of pasty flesh became visible around his navel.
“I’m not one to rush into things,” she heard him saying. “I’ve never understood ‘settling down,’ you know? I’m biding my time, I’m unencumbered by social…” Joyce smiled, nodding. She needed to blow her nose, and she was down to her last paccheri. She stabbed at the noodle, placed it on her tongue, then languidly wiped her mouth and snot away with one sweep of her napkin. Pah-keh-ree, she mused. The waiter had corrected her pronunciation. She was not very good at rolling her r’s.
“So, um, let’s split?” The bill had arrived, and Kevin was hastily wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The gelatinized Alfredo had now been smeared into his stubble. Joyce nodded again absentmindedly, glancing out the window. It had begun raining, and a mother just outside was struggling to extend the stroller hood over her toddler’s downy head. The waiter made his way back over and swept up their credit cards. Kevin was shrugging his way back into his leather jacket, asking her about her bamboo. “It’s bonsai,” she corrected him with a lilting giggle. They signed, and Joyce neatly folded her used napkin and laid it next to her plate.
“I had a great time with you,” Kevin said, holding open the restaurant door. Joyce had at nearly an inch on him in her chunky-heeled boots. She smiled, returned the sentiment, and stepped outside into the downpour. “So…let’s do this again soon?” He sounded anxious for some reason. Joyce glanced at the crosswalk, checking if any puddles were already obstructing her walk home.
“Yes, of course! I’m free this weekend,” Joyce responded. Her mascara wasn’t waterproof, drat it. He gave her a big smile, said something about mini golf, and then suddenly stepped forward and wrapped her in a hug. Joyce stiffened a little as some heady cologne filled her mouth and nostrils, threatening to choke her.
“My parking’s about to expire, so I’ve gotta run,” he said, pulling back, hands still gripping her forearms. Joyce relaxed. “No worries.” She could feel the fat droplets pelting her scalp. “Just so you know, uh, you don’t even need any of that.” He made some sort of vague gesture towards her face. Joyce blinked a moment, then swiped her fingertips beneath her eyes. They came away tar black. “Oh. Thank you.” He nodded generously. “Of course. I’m not into all the fake stuff, you know.” Joyce didn’t really know what to say. Kevin released her arms and gave her an awkward, prickly kiss on the cheek. He then turned on his heel and headed the opposite direction, shoulders hunched. Joyce watched a moment, then turned away to wobble home in her boots.
Hours later, freshly showered, Joyce deleted Tinder. She sat down on her couch, content, and turned on the TV. She was finally back on schedule, no longer lagging in the game of life. It was a Friday, but she called her parents anyway to give them the news: she’d met someone.
Gladys Smith is an undergraduate at UPenn studying health & societies with minors in chemistry and creative writing. She is the 2026 winner of the Gibson Peacock Creative Nonfiction Prize and third-place awardee for the Phi Kappa Sigma Fiction Prize. Her work has appeared in the Cathartic Youth Literary Magazine and in the Daily Pennsylvanian’s Opinion section. She serves as editor for Penn’s UnEarthed Magazine, and is a proud alum of the Kelly Writers House Summer Workshop for Young Writers.