My Dating App Said He'd Die Tomorrow. He Was Still Choosing a Shirt.

Mae had washed her hair, chosen her underwear and found a death notice for the man she was meeting in an hour.

It was dated tomorrow.

Daniel, forty-one, had messaged four minutes earlier asking whether she wanted a table outside. Quite a relaxed approach to his remaining time.

Mae was thirty-seven, lived in Darwin and preferred her first-date concerns to involve bad breath or somebody saying they were an entrepreneur.

She opened the link beneath his profile on the fictional dating app Pairwell.

Departed Saturday. He leaves unfinished plans and a blue glass marble beneath a table.

He was alive. The app wasn't interested.

Daniel rang as soon as she messaged.

"I'm alive."

"Good. Your profile needs updating."

He was at home choosing a shirt. Couldn't see the notice on his screen. When Mae tried to screenshot it, everything disappeared except tomorrow's date.

They cancelled dinner.

Mae contacted the app's support.

We're delighted you've found someone memorable!

"He's got a fucking obituary," she told the phone.

A little heart appeared.

She changed into a loose shirt and made toast. Outside, the sky looked like a bruised mango.

A new sentence appeared beneath Daniel's photo.

Their first evening ended under a sky she called a bruised mango.

She hadn't said it aloud.

The marble was already at the restaurant

Daniel called again. He'd walked around the corner to cancel the booking because nobody answered the restaurant phone.

There was a blue marble under their table.

"Tell me you left it there."

"I'm across the road."

"Keep walking."

He went to a busy café. They stayed on the phone while he ordered tea. Then the café address appeared in the notice.

Every time they tried to avoid the evening, the app wrote their next move into it.

Mae was scared now. Daniel stopped pretending he wasn't.

They exchanged numbers and left the app call.

A notification followed.

Your connection is progressing beautifully.

"Bit possessive for something I downloaded free," Mae said.

Daniel laughed, briefly. She liked the sound. Annoying timing to discover another thing she fancied about him.

They deleted the app before it could finish the story

The notice changed again.

Continue your evening.

A button appeared underneath. No account settings. No help. Just the invitation to keep going.

Mae closed it and removed the app through her phone settings. Daniel did the same.

The messages stopped.

He called a friend to stay with him. Mae invited her neighbour over, told her what had happened and produced the mostly blank screenshot.

Her neighbour put biscuits on the table.

"Well, that's useless evidence. Have a biscuit anyway."

Saturday arrived. Daniel texted a picture of breakfast. Still alive. No marbles.

Then Mae's browser opened by itself.

The obituary was back. This time the name was Pairwell.

Departed after two people refused to continue. Future unavailable.

By lunchtime, the app's website was gone.

They waited a week before meeting. Daylight, a different café, no suggested itinerary.

Daniel wore the shirt he'd been choosing. It looked good. Mae was delighted to finally have an ordinary, slightly filthy thought about the man in it.

"Second date?" he asked.

"Yes. You can text me. Don't involve a fucking algorithm."

For another date with an unwanted supernatural opinion, read the mirror that fancied him first.