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yesterdaysyearning · 13 days

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shrimp ring

“girl help I’m romanticizing situations” – bluebandana

Picture this: I’m sitting on the bottom edge a bed that’s been pushed into a corner with pillows strewn all around the perimeter. A large dog is laying by my feet, looking anything but relaxed as he keeps a close eye on what she’s putting in her mouth. A defrosted shrimp ring – you know the kind that you get in the discount bin with itty bitty fish that curl up around a thin piece of black plastic? Devoured in five minutes flat by the cutest and most compact human I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. With every discarded tail and lick of a finger I grow more confused. Though words are said, nothing sticks because all I can think is… am I turned on right now?

A while back, when I was still blissfully married and cruising apps for a casual flame that may or may not confirm how painfully queer I was, I come across a smile to remember. We have a few casual exchanges that are mostly silly and forgettable. What do you like? Smiles and butts of course. An embarrassingly baby gay response apparently. Good thing she has both. Flirty banter? Check. But then she asks if I have Snapchat… and well, this is too far. I suddenly become acutely aware of our two-year age gap and that fact that this is a real person who I would have to interact outside of this illusionary realm if I did in fact, want to see her butt. Abort mission.

Fast forward to the first weekend of June 2023. I’ve been kindly adopted into a co-worker’s friend group to attend the first event of Pride: Lavender Wild Fest. It’s going to be gay as fuck and I am PUMPED (vibrating with anxiety and mildly nauseous from the espresso martini I had at brunch).

As we enter the venue half of my group diverts to grab a snack, and I casually peruse the scenery. A group of four catches my eye. One member is dressed in all black, wearing a weirdly large hat, and emanating an exuberant energy across the paved desert. I’m entranced by her smile and a nagging sense that I know her from somewhere...

I end up staring for a concerning amount of time – silently praying that her gaze shifts slightly to the left. If she would just look at me then I know we’d make swoon worthy, spark igniting, lesbian-longing eye contact and fall in love forever. Shockingly, this does not happen. Probably something to do with my blasphemous nature. Her group makes their way back towards to beer tents and vanish into thin air.

~~~

Two weeks later I’m at the same venue to relive my angsty youth while watching Alexisonfire and I see her again in the crowd. Same outfit, same hat, and same lack of eye contact. I find out later that she wasn’t actually there, which means that either she has a doppelgänger, or that my manifestations had taken an abrupt turn to the delusion highway. But that’s neither here nor there.

I contemplate the existence of a higher power when I open the app the next day and there is her face beaming back at me. The memory of our previously failed match comes flooding back to me. I send a like. She responds quickly with some line about singing acapella and teaching her to dance. She proposes Cotton Eye-Joe in a park. I cringe, immediately questioning our future. I counter with Gloria at a bar. We get down to the nitty gritty.

What would you describe your vibe as? A black cat who talks a lot (me). A golden retriever with the anxiety levels of a chihuahua (her). A sapphic pairing that would make the heavens weep.

What’s your star sign? An apprehensive Gemini. An excited Leo. This could be a problem. She quickly redeems herself by suggesting I add her on Co-Star. I’m basically foaming at the mouth.

Our compatibility is strong for basic personalities and horrible for Communication & Love. We will never have a happily ever after. But Sex & Aggression are a match so we agree we will be best friends with benefits.

I can’t help bringing up the fact that I spotted her at Lavender fest which brings our conversation back round to the topic of music tastes. She drops the bomb that she is seriously inclined to country. A fact that would normally be a do not pass go; but she’s charming, so we exchange socials and send each other screenshots of our top Spotify songs. Hers is mostly composed of insipid EDM but there’s one song that is fire for my soul. We’re back in business.

I wake to a voice note (sent at the ungodly hour of 7am) asking if I want to buy tarot cards and learn to read them in a park today. I, a human of reasonable and rational weekend habits, listen to this at 11am. I say yes but she’s had four hours of boredom and made other plans. It is agreed that we will make this happen soon. The timing doesn’t matter though – an impulsive date that merges two of my favourite things? I am hooked.

Later that day and as I sit in Gladday with my friend watching the Queer Ultimatum, my heart races along with my phone as it vibrates with incoming messages from her. We go for a walk after the show, and I gush about this new crush that is the total opposite of me. She likes camping and country music can you believe it? But her energy is so contagious and carefree. I find myself thrilled by the prospect of finding someone who I can’t see a long-term future with, but who could be the perfect summer fling.

~~~

We start almost exclusively communicating via voice notes; migrating from the dating app to Instagram where she also sends me some thirsty videos of her working with a nail gun. Did I mention she’s a carpenter? Fuck me, right. She offers to switch back to texting at one point and I jokingly tell her we can’t because I’m addicted to her voice. Of course, I’m actually dead serious.

The way she sounds is intoxicating. She has a slight lisp and absent mindedly floats between a twangy and valley girl accent. It’s toe curling, face scrunching, tiny squealing adorable. This kind of infatuation feels foreign; its vastly different from the kind of lust I normally experience with crushes. Her charism invokes the same irrational desire in me to crush a puppy’s head or bite a baby’s foot. I want to eat her up and taste the sickening sweetness.

My favourite phrases of hers:

no, so, also (all pronounced with half an o and r thrown in)

anywhoozer

buchhyeaa

gooooode

mmmhuu (when pleased or frustrated)

ottayy

girly

do be

oh my doord

jaah know

good mrrning

We plan to meet the Thursday after pride but are doubtful that we’ll be able to keep the voice notes up for that long. How silly we were. The next five days are a blur of continuous conversation about anything and everything. Monday night we stay up late messaging and she’s grumpy the next morning. I quickly learn that she has a strict bedtime that she must adhere to, or else she turns into a gremlin (a nickname I crown her with).

I post a story that quotes the epigraph, and we discuss how we’re both prone to romanticizing situations. We talk about where we grew up and how kismet it is that we’re both from Hamilton and now live in the city. She tries to convince me that camping can be fun and starts planning out a million cute dates for us. Barbequing on the beach, sleeping in a hammock, hustling people at a pool hall.

What’s your type? A masc presenting person who is kind and funny but also looks like they could ruin my life. Hers? Patient, intelligent, good conversationalist, confident and sure of themselves, nice face and eyes, dark features, gives her attention, and could kick her ass. A femme tomboy mix that will do wild/crazy shit but doesn’t bro out like her friends. I realize I don’t exactly fit the mold. I persist, nonetheless.

Eventually we find that sending five voice notes in a row back and forth has muddled the conversation and we have too many strains to keep up with. Tuesday night I listen to her latest batch of messages, take notes, and create a six-minute monologue to answer everything at once and tie up loose ends. I win brownie points for being studious and patient enough to deliver such an absurdly long note.

My brain is feeling mushy Wednesday so I convince her that it would just be easier to have a phone call. It’s obvious that we’re both nervous but an ease quickly washes over us and soon we’re giggling and chatting shit like a couple of schoolgirls. It pains me that I can’t recall 95% of that conversation – fog from the euphoria, I’m sure. I do remember briefly convincing her that my middle name was Presley (hers is Lisa Marie, obviously). We end up talking for two hours – a feat that she is incredibly impressed with.

That night I have one of my vivid and visceral nightmares. My work crush shows up at my house where my mom is drunk and unhinged. There is white goo all over the floor, my cat is injured, and I have holes in my hands that won’t stop bleeding. I wake myself up at 4:44am and can’t get back to sleep. I text her to tell her that she’s cursed me.

We’re both sluggish; I kept her up way past her bedtime and I’m in a boring conference for work. She asks for a photo of my cubicle, and I include a corporate goth bathroom photo. I’m nervous about her reaction because she hasn’t seen a full-length photo before, but she says I look good with a heart eye emoji, and I am reassured. I tell my friend at lunch about our late-night chat, and she proposes we start making me badges for when I reach new levels of gay.

I leave work early for a virtual therapy appointment. I haven’t had a session since early April so there’s a lot of ground to cover. I cry a lot and try to explain the daily panic of waking up and not recognizing myself or my new life. Despite the monumental changes, my therapist thinks I’m doing well and comments on the fact that I seem more self-assured.

I mention this long and emotional day only to illustrate how stupid what I do next is.

~~~

Bolstered and renewed by my hour of introspection, I excitedly send a voice note asking about her day. Turns out she picked up a shrimp ring at the grocery store and is devastated to find out that it didn’t come with any dip… A few fumbling and awkward messages later, she gives me her address so I can be a sauce hero.

I’m glad you’re not tall, I didn’t think to ask.

Ten dizzying minutes searching for shrimp dip in the grocery store and a torturous twenty five-minute Uber ride later – this is the first thing she says to me. We’re strolling around the block to calm her stranger-hesitant dog and I have no response. I had been overthinking the height difference for a couple days and dug out my old beat-up Docs instead of wearing my usual platform boots that would have put me four inches above her. I think I eventually comment on the heat, but truthfully, I can only watch from above as my anxiety skyrockets me into peak numbing dissociation.

Eventually we head up the stairs into the apartment. The dog does not bark or seem bothered by my intrusion. Sigh of relief. A ta-da moment as I hand her the sauce and chocolate covered raisins. She says something about a kilt cozy and asks me to call the odds that she could throw a raisin in my mouth… every brain cell of mine has been zapped and I cannot comprehend what she’s asking.

Once she catches on that I’m a fucking idiot, we go to the kitchen to retrieve the precious shrimp. And water, so I have something to hold. Should we watch a movie? NO, I blurt out. Um, not yet. I am scrambling to recalibrate and in hindsight, a movie might have been the right choice. Instead, I end up on the end of her bed watching her devour the crustaceans.

As she eats and talks – I try to breathe and do the work of merging the picture of her that had been in my head with the reality in front of me. I had seen her in person before of course, but matching her voice and mannerisms to her body is disorienting. In person her energy is even more child-like and I can’t help but feeling like I’m in the room of a teenage-boy. She’s wearing gym-shorts (we all know how I feel about those) and a red long-sleeve shirt that is pulled up to reveal forearms covered in remnants of past pain. Her baseball hat and calloused hands that she welds around animatedly reminds me of my cousin; a realization that disturbs me and I quickly push aside.

She tries to give the dog a shrimp and he spits it back out looking disappointed and confused. I get it buddy. I’m finally coherent enough by the time the shrimp is gone to talk about dreams. She tells me about a horrifying paralysis dream that involves her dad (so much to unpack) and a reoccurring dream about zombies where she’s the hero who saves everyone. I joke that I would just give up in a zombie apocalypse because I don’t have that strong of a will to live. She does not laugh. Fuck. Okay, so dark humour is off the table. She mercifully suggests going for a cigarette.

Sitting on the metal stairs that lead to her apartment, I retell my horrific tale of being dragged down the same kind of steps by an excited puppy as a kid. She’s sitting two steps below me and looks up mischievously as she challenges me to come up with a story that involves a shovel. A peculiar version of eye-spy. I dazzle her with a story about a sketchy Hamiltonian shoveler. She laughs and I can’t help but notice how beautiful her amber eyes are.

With the awkwardness and anxiety substantially subdued, we head back inside to do an oracle reading with the deck I brought. She earnestly listens to me explain a basic Past, Present, Future layout and the meaning of the cards. She insists I pull cards as well and we end up with two of the same cards (Ram & Beaver). I can tell she’s hesitant to read out loud, but it comes off endearing – pausing, one eyebrow arched, to hear my answers to the questions that the guidebook asks.

She removes her hat and curls up with a pillow. I move onto my stomach so I can be closer to her. She starts and wins a thumb war. The dog gets jealous by the contact so I’m forced to suppress the urge to demand a rematch so that I can keep holding her hand. Instead, I charm the dog into a long snuggle hug. His affection towards me surprises her – it’s because I’m such an amazing person. We keep talking and play a quick game to determine her true type: someone who’s soft, loyal, and loves unconditionally.

At some point, I realize there’s something about her that feels incredibly safe. I’m not at all sure what this means, and I can’t seem to sus out whether we’re flirting or not but some point I admit to zoning out during one of her stories because I can’t get over how cute she is and she blushes.

She gets up to show me her hat collection and puts on her favourite cowboy fare – grinning wildly with a mixture of embarrassment and bravado. I find myself imagining moving to the edge of the bed to pull her close. I take this as an indication of real attraction; knowing that I have to leave soon, I put on my bravery vest and ask if I can kiss her. I don’t think we should. About a million different emotions pass through me and I pray that my face betrays none of them. She says she’s getting over a cold, but I delicately push and ask if there’s any other reason. She admits she’s just not sure if there’s a vibe yet.

We head out to smoke before I head home. She asks if I feel super awkward now. No, I’m fine just worried that I made you uncomfortable. Which is true. I feel strangely calm but concerned that I upset her. She shares that she recently went out with a girl who was super forward. She went along with it and ended up feeling bad about it, so she doesn’t want to do that again. I admit that I’m not sure there’s anything between us either, but there’s like not not a vibe? For me, it’s easier to tell if there’s something romantic based on how a kiss feels; but I totally understand if that’s not how she wants to do things. My hope is that by explaining my thought process, I’ll provide reassurance and remove any pressure. I don’t think I achieve this though as I dumbly add that she has very nice eyes. She tells me I have a nice smile and insists on driving me home.

We get into Betty (her small white car) and I try not to notice how good she looks while driving. The radio plays Use Somebody and we sing along quietly. She switches stations and I egg her on to twangyily sing Dust on the Bottle with me. She mentions wanting to buy a truck and says that she’s the straightest gay girl I’ll ever meet. I concede that that’s probably true. I feel the tension ease a bit and an emboldened me plugs in my phone to show her my Pride song One Big Gay Disco. I let myself get a little lost in the music. Are those finger guns? She hates the song, but I have her laughing at my goofy car seat dance. At this point I’m confident I’ve redeemed myself and optimistic that we just need more time to get to know each other.

When she gets out of the car to hug me, she remarks that she likes that I give full hugs and not weird half side hugs. I go in for another hug and squeezed her tight. She hugs me back, but I can feel her whole body stiffen. Something isn’t right. I stand outside smoking and call my best friend to help decipher all ways in which I just fucked up. She tries to reassure me that I didn’t do anything wrong, but I still felt unsettled.

Before I go to bed, I send a voice note thanking her for the car ride and for communicating openly. I say I’m happy I came over and wish her a goodnight. She responds saying she’s happy we have the meeting behind us and apologizes for being awkward. To clarify, she only wants to be friends.

Not to add a dog to the mix but he would be really sad if we weren’t friends. Because although I hate to admit it, he really loves you.

I feel the air ripped from my lungs. Rejection, confusion, and frustration creating a storm in my body as I scream into my pillow. I eventually answer back to say we can be friends for the dog’s sake. Six days to build a fantasy and fifty-three seconds to knock it to the ground.

~~~

In the morning I send her a melancholic voice note. It feels like when you study really hard for an exam, but you fail because you read the question wrong. She likes my analogy.

We send a few more messages throughout the day – it feels somewhat normal, but we agree we should just reconvene after the weekend. It is my first Pride in the city after all. I spend the morning failing to focus on work and crying in various spurts. I begin to spiral because this feels so familiar. I fall back into thinking about the last failed connection and how I must be doing something wrong. Questions keep rolling around in my brain. Do I make people uncomfortable? Am I unattractive? Do I reek of desperation? Can they see all my broken parts? Am I bad at being gay?

I rally in the afternoon to host a friend and head out to the Village to check out the vendors and crowds. While there are moments of delight (when a gay man stops to compliment my eyebrows), I largely feel dejected and self-conscious about everything I say and do. I move through the crowds like an apologetic ghost. My friend heads home early and as I walk back to my apartment, I desperately try to find the joy that I should feel being surrounded by all these beautifully free people. I fall asleep at the end of my bed, slightly tipsy, and hopeful for tomorrow.

The next morning another friend and her sister bring their dogs and me to Puppy Pride. We sit in the sun cooing at all the cute rainbow adorned dogs and chat about all my big dumb feelings. They assure me that it’s not as dire as my intrusive thoughts have made it and we laugh about the absurdity of the first date, deciding to refer to it as Shrimpgate from now on. The heat is suffocating as we walk down Church in search of food, and against all odds we walk right past the gremlin and her group of friends. Of all the streets in all the cities… or whatever. All progress falls away immediately, and I slink home to have a nap and cry about it.

By the evening I have hyped myself back up, redone my make-up, and found an outfit I feel hot in, so I venture back out to the Village to dance the night away. Bolstered by my fun evening, I join friends for the parade on Sunday. We sip on slushies trying to ignore the oppressive sun; and it works for a while. My heart swells watching all the love on the street but they’re tired and I’m fragile, so we call it an evening after one patio drink. My first Pride in the city, and all I can think as the sun sets is whether I will hear from her tomorrow.

Monday comes and we start swapping Pride stories early in the morning. Her weekend involved a lot more kissing and partying than mine did. She says that she still wants to do a tarot date and I tell her that I’m down to try but add a caveat that the situation kind of fucked me up for a few days so I’m not sure how well it will go. I was clearly doing such a great job of playing it cool. Maybe hanging out will be a defining moment.

She’s feeling quite rough post-pride but we keep chatting over the next few days about random things. I end up making her a playlist (like the gay asshole I am) and I propose a movie date with a side of platonic cuddling (like the gay asshole I am). She wants to see my apartment and meet my cat so we decide she should come over at the end of the week and watch a horror movie. Despite being excited for this plan, I move through the week with a generally low mood and despondent attitude. Like the sad cartoon character with a storm cloud following. I have a nice visit with a friend on Thursday, but something feels very off in my body.

Friday comes around and I spend the day actively squashing any expectations or fantasies I have about the evening while I clean. Mid-way through the day she lets me know that she’s had some work shit come up and she’s too tired and scattered to socialize. Rain check? I send a voice note and she hears disappointment in my voice. I send another one to reassure her that it’s fine to reschedule, and respect that she needs time and space to deal with things.

I remember the frantic feeling I had when recording it. Trying to hide my own emotion and come off as an understanding and reasonable person. I find often when I talk, I get distracted by my swelling emotions and become anxious that I’m making no sense or sounding crazy. For as long as I can remember, I’ve also hated listening to myself in recordings or on video – cringing at the strange pitch and childish lilt. Much like seeing a photo of myself, hearing myself speak can trigger a dissociative episode where I question the reality of me in the world. But I listen back to this voice note, worried I said the wrong thing, and am surprised to find that I sound calm, articulate, and possibly even wise. I also sound kind of alluring?

Since then, I’ve listened back to other voice notes. Some of hers because her voice still gives me a boost of dopamine. Also, some of mine and for once, I look in from the outside and like what I see. This is perhaps the greatest gift she gave me.

She suggests rescheduling for Sunday and insinuates that there were other things making her tired earlier in the week. I decipher that she means she was on a date and reassure her that she doesn’t have to hide anything from me. While 90% true (I’m so chill) I am very taken back when she sends me voice notes describing three days of confusing passion. There is a woman who she mentioned before (not true unless it’s the girl that was too forward?) that she went on a few dates with, but friend zoned because she gave her too much attention. They ended up hanging out on Monday and curiosity killed her. She then spent the next two nights in her bed, up until at least 2am. She politely avoids saying they had wild sex all night, but I get the point.

I’m vibrating with rage by the time I finished the voice notes. Sure, there’s a bit of jealousy – why couldn’t I pique her curiosity? But I truly cannot believe that she would be so insensitive and give this kind of detail. It’s one thing to say oh hey I went on a date, and I’m tried but it felt like she was rubbing it in my face. At the very least, she’s not conscious enough to see the similarities between our situations and see that the specifics might be hurtful for me to hear. My confusion and anger are only heightened when I realize that she had been sending me voice notes on the nights and mornings that she would have been with the other woman. I don’t know what is going to happen the next day, but my armour is now solidly in place.

I spend the morning much like Friday. I get groceries, clean the apartment, and try to stay calm and collected. She’s impatient and asks if she can come earlier than planned. Sure, let’s get this over with. I am going to exude ice queen energy. And I do. For like thirty seconds.

I meet her outside with an umbrella, pay for her parking, and then we sit on the steps to have a smoke. I can feel her anxiety. Or is it mine? She sits below me again, which annoys me as she looks up bright eyed and smiling. I ask her how her stressful work stuff is going and struggle to hold onto the conversation as I’m focused on settling my pulse. We head inside and I feel extra prickly as she makes a throw away comment about the weird hallway floors.

I should also mention that it’s hot. She had picked today because it was supposed to thunderstorm which would be the perfect movie watching weather; but its only lightly raining and the AC-less air in my apartment is thick and humid. My cat is hidden on the bookcase and scares her when she says hello. I get us water and she says something about the kitchen being tucked away strangely. Looking back, I can see that she was just nervous but I was looking through green coloured glasses, and bristle at almost every word. I can feel myself being bitchy and not being able to stop it. This is my space, and I like it! And I’m worthy of adoration too! my inner dialogue whines.

I get us a snack and we settle onto the couch to play with the oracle cards at her request. She pulls one about being a mentor or being mentored – very apt given her stressful work situation. I pull one about getting over trauma – very apt given my entire life situation. I give her treats to give to the cat, who screams like a banshee, and breaks the tension.

I ask her to tell me the night shift story that she teased a while back and this accidently opens up the door to some real trauma. She talks about her struggle with substances during a dark period in her life and retells all the places and people she lived with. She says something about being a bad person back then, and I interject to tell her she’s not a bad person she just didn’t make great choices. She jokes about this being a therapy session. I willfully ignore this comment but later roll it around in my brain wondering if I was enacting an old role.

There is something about the way she tells these stories that illuminates a soft yet guarded vulnerability. It makes my heart ache. I sense these are things she keeps stored away for herself. Things that she could steal glances at as reminders of past mistakes and pain that she thought she deserved. Like an old scab you pick to distract yourself. I have a fierce desire to protect her. To make her feel better. She seems to squirm under observation, and this sudden switch from being angry and shielded to being tender and protective felt uncomfortable, so we move on.

Fearing the dreaded looks of pity, I quickly recount all the places I’ve lived and with whom – this includes a windowless hell in St. Catherines and stories about both my grandparents’ deaths. I honestly couldn’t say how she reacted to my trauma timeline; one of those fun dissociation tricks again. But I am exceedingly thankful when she suggests we go for a cigarette.

Outside she’s vibrating with anxious energy, so we walk down the block as we smoke. A change of scenery is good, and we start discussing a plan to find my best friend a new partner when she comes to visit. I mention that she’ll needs financial stability because she is a Taurus – she mentions the girl she’s been spending time with is also a Taurus. Fantastic. She wants to keep walking, but I turn us around because I can feel my nerves fraying; we need to start this movie, so I don’t have to think of more things to say.

I had researched and picked X beforehand because it seemed like a type of horror I could handle. Plus, it’s set in the 70s and Jenna Ortegga is in it. She loves this fact and I tease her that she has a crush on a child. She jumps onto the bed first so she’s by the window. I set up fans, get us more water, grab the snacks, and place the laptop between us. We both start to relax. She notes that the bed is very comfortable and when I ask if her anxiety is any better. Yes, laying down helps. There’s a horribly graphic and bloody scene at the beginning of the movie that has us both yelling and laughing. She’s slightly higher than me, so I have to keep turning to look up at her. Was she always this hot? There’s something mischievous in her eyes and my stomach does that twisty thing. What the fuck.

She suddenly sits up and pauses the movie. She has to pee. When she’s done, I go as well so that I can take a moment to reenter my body through the mirror. When I come back, I stop her from starting the movie to ask how she’s feeling about platonic cuddling. What spoon do you want to be? I say I don’t care – ok she’ll be the little spoon. She takes off her hat and turns to nuzzle her body up to mine. What the fuck am I doing.

Laptop now moved to the window ledge, we are curled tightly together – like two shrimps in a ring, if you will. With my head propped on a pillow my right-hand plays with her hair and my left arm wraps casually around her torso. She’s so compact, I want to squeeze so tightly, but I refrain. This is platonic cuddling. I repeat to myself as I run my thumb up around her ear. I make comments about the thickness of her hair and stare at the strands intently, pretending it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. My mind is goo at this point as I struggle to mitigate the duality of keeping this friendly while desire brews beneath my skin.

I ask her about the gauges in ears and when Fleetwood Mac starts playing in the film, I start singing softly. That’s right, I START SINGING. I know this sounds ridiculous; like I’m a lovesick puppy begging for affection, but I want to assure you (and myself) that this was not all one-sided. For while I’m struggling to keep things light and fun, she keeps pushing her body into mine. She laughs and burrows closer every time she turns to talk to me. On multiple occasions I ask her if she wants me to stop touching her hair or stop cuddling. She says no to both.

There are some sex scenes in the film, but we do an okay job of diffusing the awkwardness with jokes. At some point she says something mean or funny and I pull her hair hard. It feels so good and so terrible at the same time. While on some level I am immensely enjoying the cuddle (I was desperate for human contact and her body fits so well with mine), I am also having a hard time staying present. My body reacts to every breathe and movement as my mind flits through a million questions. Does she like this? Should I touch her there or here? Be firmer? Gentler? Back away? Get closer?

The movie ends in what feels like twenty seconds. What happened you ask? No idea. Lots of death… it was weird but ultimately forgettable. She jumps up and sits on her knees at the end of my bed complaining about it being super hot. The parking app notifies us that she has to move her car or leave. She should leave because she has to feed her dog soon anyways. I sit up and am distracted by another sneaky tattoo on her arm that I didn’t see before. I ask if I can see it and she adamantly refuses. To my own horror, I pout.

She stands and paces for a minute thanking me for playing with her hair. You’re really good at it. She walks over and hugs me as I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. It feels more intimate than it should, and I’m clouded by the desperate feeling of not wanting her to leave. I tell her I’ll walk her out and as I’m scrambling to find my keys I ask her if she thinks this was a defining moment as she predicted? I’ve gone over this moment numerous times and cannot clearly pinpoint what her answer was. I want to go back in time and shake myself to pay attention! Stop missing the important parts.

It's pouring when we get outside so we stand under my neighbour’s tree to have a smoke. My hands are shaking. I want to say I am acutely aware of the empty space that your body was just occupying and there’s a pit in my stomach because I have a terrible feeling that I’ll never get to touch you again. What I actually say is: I need to eat something.

There’s some light banter as we talk about superpowers. I know I’m looking at her too intently, but it feels like a memory I should hold onto. The picture of her smiling and smoking in the rain is something that needs to be captured. Serenity washes over me as I become certain that this is going to be the end. The yearning and pining after someone who isn’t available is a story I know too well. She senses this too, I think because as she leaves, she asks if it was a definable moment for me. I take a drag of my cigarette and quietly answer, yeah I think so. She doesn’t ask what I mean, just hugs me, and gets in her car. I stand on the sidewalk feeling like another piece has been chipped off. I feel like screaming and crying and I feel nothing at all.

~~~

I go back inside, lay down, and call my best friend. She’s mad because we cuddled, and it made me sad but understands it was something I needed to try. I tell her that I won’t fall into my old pattern again.

We hang up and I see that in the meantime she’s texted me. Are we gucci? with a nervous emoji. I ask if she has a few minutes to talk. She doesn’t want to phone, just text. I tell her that’s fine we can talk later then. My phone starts ringing. Why did you ask if we’re okay? She felt weird after she asked that question. I’m too attracted to you to be your friend. She got that impression but takes that as a compliment. The call is a bit of a blur again as emotions are high. She says something about it being weird because she’s into someone else.

I could still be your wing woman, said hopefully.

No, I can’t do that.

Well, you’re very good at playing with hair so you can always use that as a move.

Clearly not, I laugh.

I’m glad I got to meet your cat.

Yeah, you got all the good parts. Admittedly cruel and unnecessary, but in that moment, I feel too exposed and need her to hurt a bit.

She says I have her number if something changes. It was nice getting to know you.

~~~

I wake up super sick in the middle of an extreme heat wave. I spend the next 48 hours in bed, sweating, crying, and dreaming crazy shit. Oh, and analyzing every single fucking thing that has happened over the last two years. I’m very unwell for those few days – physically and mentally as a particularly terrible phone call from my ex-husband spins me into a dark oblivion.

By the time I’m well enough to get out of bed and shower I’ve decided that this time was going to be different. I could be strong enough to see past the useless infatuation and gain a friend. We weren’t compatible anyways. The longing was some misplaced lust for an attractive person who didn’t want me – my ultimate kryptonite. I didn’t really like her more than a friend, right?

We had sent a few texts about me being sick and she was still being very kind. I had also started the second season of The Bear and was starting to believe in the goodness of the world again; these two facts bolster me as I fervently draft a rambly message. I’d like to reevaluate being friends because I’m confident I could get over the crush if she was willing to be a bit patient with me. Plus, I added keenly, Hamiltonians should stick together. Eye rolls all around.

Hey, it was nice hanging out with you. But I don’t think we should be friends. I wish you all the best though!

Shocked? By the tone, yes. By the response? Not really. My entire body gets hot, and I feel lightheaded. But then…. relief. Her change of heart is a release from spending days, weeks, and possibly months trying to come up with excuses to interact and subtle ways to test whether she actually liked me. And the finality has saved me from trying to convince her I was someone worth having in her life. Now I don’t have to spend any time wondering whether she ever thinks about me, or if she ever starts to miss me. She doesn’t and she won’t. This was a mere blip in both of our chaotic dating adventures; a funny story to tell at dinner to illustrate the importance of strangers that pass through our lives. For a while though, I will watch her watching my stories and take solace in the fact that I briefly held the attention of a lion.

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