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Creating a DNA dating algorithm was never on my to-do list. Never something I dreamed of or even pictured myself doing. I want to understand the beast that is cancer—what causes it, perpetuates it, enables it. I want to crackit.
This dating app? This is a cheap commercialdistraction.
Unfortunately, I can’t afford to ignore it at the moment given the bills that need to bepaid.
The finger Rena traces along the glass, following the motion of one of the machines, ends in a black fingernail that should look goth but it doesn’t. With the pale hair, she’s like a dark pixie dipped in dryice.
“What’re the genes?” she asksme.
“That’s proprietary. Basically, it relates topheromones.”
“Smell.”
I wince because if I had a dollar for every person who conflated the two, I wouldn’t be prostrating myself to pay my bills. “They’re not the samething.”
“Really?” She turns back to me, and speaking of smell, there’s hers again. It’s subtle, like a warm breeze in the spring, and not so strong you’d notice it from more than a few inchesaway.
What’s not subtle is those eyes, big and intent on mine. The curve of her cheek. The red lips I swear I’m not lookingat.
“I decide if I want to fuck you based on your smell.” Rena leans in closer, her face near the collar of myshirt.
You wanted to lastnight.
I’m not sure where that thought came from, but I’m remembering the way she looked at me in that restaurant, and it’s making my abs tighten as if I’m doing reversecrunches.
“Doyou?”
It’s her turn to look surprised, and the fact that I’ve caught this woman off guard brings me fleetingsatisfaction.
Until she smiles. “What does it matter? You just told me that’s not what you believein.”
She’s got methere.
Somehow I’m keeping score. But her digs aren’t frustrating, like a colleague who needles you just to be a pain in the ass. It’s more like a challenge, a puzzle you want to solve for the simple satisfaction of knowing youcan.
“Listen. This research is marketable. I just don’t know how to market it,” Istate.
“You want to build abrand.”
Frustration works through me. “I don’t care about a brand. I want to sellit.”
Her finger taps against her lip, and it takes more energy than it should to ignore both. “So, you match people through their DNA. Like a dating site. But you don’t want to do thatyourself.”
“Run a dating site? Hell no.” The idea gives mehives.
“Too bad. That’s where the money is. Everyone wants to be happy. Or their idea of it. They think when they have the right address, or the right partner, or the right nipple protection, they’ll behappy.”
“You don’t believe that.” For some reason, I’m interested in her opinion as much as her marketanalysis.
“I’m saying we can sell people what they want.” Her gaze flicks past me to the lab again. “Why’s everyone in gloves andcoats?”
“Cross-contamination is the bane of any lab. The samples need to be clean and processedaccurately.”
“Orelse?”
I use words she’ll immediately understand. “The science iswrong.”
She goes back to studying it. “It looks sorepetitive.”
