The users who reappear after countless remaining swipes are becoming contemporary legends that are urban.
Alex Hammerli / The Atlantic
Alex is 27 years of age. He lives in or has use of a property with a kitchen that is enormous granite countertops. We have seen their face lots of times, constantly using the exact same expression—stoic, content, smirking. Absolutely identical to compared to the Mona Lisa, plus glasses that are horn-rimmed. Most days, their Tinder profile has six or seven photos, plus in every one, he reclines resistant to the exact exact same immaculate kitchen area countertop with one leg crossed gently on the other. His pose is identical; the angle associated with the picture is identical; the coif of their locks is identical. Just their clothes modification: blue suit, black colored suit, red flannel. Rose blazer, navy V-neck, double-breasted parka. Body and face frozen, he swaps clothing just like a paper doll. He’s Alex, he could be 27, he’s inside the kitchen, he could be in a shirt that is nice. He could be Alex, he could be 27, he could be in their home, he’s in a nice shirt.
I’ve constantly swiped left (for “no”) on their profile—no offense, Alex—which should presumably notify Tinder’s algorithm him again that I would not like to see. But we nevertheless find Alex on Tinder at least one time a thirty days. The newest time I saw him, we learned their profile for a few minutes and jumped once I noticed one sign of life: a cookie container shaped like a French bulldog appearing then vanishing from behind Alex’s elbow that is right.
I’m not the only person. Him, dozens said yes when I asked on Twitter whether others had seen. One girl responded, “I are now living in BOSTON and now have nevertheless seen this guy on visits to ny City. ” And evidently, Alex is certainly not an separated case. Comparable mythological numbers have actually popped up in local dating-app ecosystems nationwide, respawning each time they’re swiped away.