Except he’s not Kafka, not really. He’s just a man named Kafka who liked you on Hinge, and you were so intrigued by the prospect of a date with a man named Kafka that you could pretend not to be completely disgusted by the numerous black and white selfies of his bare chest that make up his profile. (The real Kafka, as you know, would never have done that.)

Your first date takes place on a hiking trail, because Kafka wanted to know if you were an indoor or outdoor sort of person. The question had come quite unexpectedly, following a period of silence brought on by a frank discussion of the black and white headless selfies, wherein you texted ngl its turning me off, and he texted back: Ouch. But Kafka isn’t easily put off by that kind of stuff. Kafka is bi-curious. He tells you that he admires your honesty, and his water-off-a-duck’s-back nonchalance bolsters you to add, idk y u would include multiple shirtless pics. Kafka responds, I guess I am a bit shallow :P.

Over the next few days, you don’t hear anything from Kafka. Perhaps he has moved on. Perhaps he has found someone else. Murmuring “Fuck this stupid baka life,” you check his profile on the fifth day to see that he has replaced one of the black and white selfies with a blurry concert pic. From the angle of the phone, you get the sense that Kafka might be lying about his height. You laugh to yourself, sighing, “Oh Kafka,” into the bathroom mirror, and your breath against the glass forms the shape of a cockroach.

Two weeks later, your phone dings with a notification from him. You have to reread the message three times before typing out your reply: it depends…. i luv a good hike but i also luv rotting in bed. His response is immediate: Let’s go on a hike this Sunday. Are you free? You smile. ofc Kafka.

According to a blog post from earlier in the year, the trail is considered to be “easy, but the mud makes it slippery.” HokaHikaHoe recommends wearing leggings and “shoes you don’t care about.” After zooming in on her profile picture to gauge if her definition of easy would align with your definition of easy, you relay the advice to Kafka, who thanks you profusely. np Kafka, you say. He texts back :P. 

Kafka shows up in a pair of basketball shorts and a muscle tee that, from its jagged edges, you can tell he cut himself. He greets you with a one-armed hug, and you catch a glimpse of his chest through the gaping armholes. It isn’t in black and white, but it isn’t any better either. He smiles and in an Australian accent says, “Shall we?” When he takes your hand in his, you realize that anyone can pretend to be somebody else.

You hold hands throughout the entire hike, even when the path narrows, even when it would have been easier to walk one after the other instead of side by side. You attempt a joke, “Is this a trail or a trial, am I right?” He frowns, “What?” Sweat pools in the space between your palms and drips down through your fingers, but Kafka doesn’t let go. You were born small and now you are even smaller.

HokaHikaHoe had also included directions to a secret waterfall, somewhere near the top of the mountain. It’s one of the main reasons you both settled on this trail. You’ve made it your mission to find it. The two of you trod as lightly as possible, keeping your ears open for any sounds of rushing water. Kafka is more perceptive than you, though, and hears it first. He takes off running in its direction, dragging your limp, wet hand behind him. But it’s too slippery and he loses his grip. You fall face-first into the mud.

“Kafka!” You scream. His head whips around, eyes widening when he sees what has become of you. “My darling,” he says, kneeling in front of you, and flicks a fist of dirt out of your hair. “Kafka,” you cry, “Teach me how to love.” Except he’s not Kafka. Not really. He’s just a man named Kafka, so he says, “I can’t, darling. Anything but that.”