Emmie: Whoever You Are

If I wasn’t going to remember that summer by you, I would've remembered it by the fruit flies. When I called my mom about them, she said pests were inevitable in a house that old. But there’s no way the density they came in was normal. By the time we reached the really warm nights at the end of June I couldn’t open the lid of the trash can without a swarm pouring out. If I forgot to close my mouth, I might have swallowed ten. The tiny bugs got caught in the frizz of my hair, drowned in my morning coffee, made the garbage disposal and the shower drain into their reproduction grounds. The bottom of the fridge served as a mass grave for all that followed the sweet scent of some iced tea or sliced watermelon and then dropped to their demise in the cool temperature.

Maye and I had lived in the old colonial-style house since last winter, but the fruit flies didn’t appear until late spring. I imagined the house was poorly constructed back when it was built in 1927 and it didn’t seem like it had a single renovation since then, probably the only reason we could afford to live there. Maye was destitute because all her loan money went straight to the McDaniel College’s astronomical liberal-arts-private-school tuition—though she’d likely make it all back someday with her double-major in biomedical sciences and women and gender studies. I couldn’t afford better on the wage of waitressing at the Cheesecake Factory. Besides, I was still chipping away at the loan I’d taken out after my single semester at the University of Baltimore. I tried not to think about how much less marketable my drop-out status made me (both in the job market and the dating market) but as it turns out my inclination for formal education could not survive Sociology 134: The Introduction to Gender and Behavior Analysis. Oh well, I suppose there’s more practical things to be concerned about when you’re a young woman trying to form a meaningful life for herself than dating. Besides, even in desperate circumstances, I always had the armies of fruit flies for company.

It was for this reason that I wasn’t surprised when I saw the dead fruit fly suspended in the melted wax of my bedroom candle. Perhaps it was the deep earthy scent of the candle that had enticed him to one day dive into the dangerous ensnaring hot wax. Perhaps he was tired of his stupid little life, flying around bowls of ripening fruit endlessly until his extinction. Regardless, I was so fascinated by him. Almost as fascinated by him as I was with you that summer. When the candle wax was cool and hard all that could be made out was a tiny black speck. But whenever I hovered my cigarette lighter above one of the three wicks and the opaque wax heated and became transparent, he’d slowly reveal himself. First his wings, then the length of his body, and finally his little legs. As the candle melted, he’d sink further and further into the jar, until I leaned in to extinguish the flame with a quick burst of breath. Then as the wax cooled and solidified once again, he’d fade back into anonymity.

Each time I saw that specific fruit fly that summer I would feel a weird twinge of emotion. Some days I’d be jealous. It seemed like a peaceful existence, being preserved without any responsibilities or obligations. Other days I’d become strangely overwhelmed with guilt. It was my insistence on having my room smell of the artificial notes of sandalwood and coconut that led him to his premature death. Most days though, I just felt a sick type of curiosity. It wasn’t often I could examine the existence of something other than myself so intimately. I could control the position of his figure in space, he was there for me to observe at my will, and for me only.

Looking back, my obsession with the fruit fly should have been an indication of my instability. My mental state declined so consistently that summer I couldn’t feel myself getting bad. Maybe it wasn’t bad-bad, not like it was in high school when I dedicated my consciousness (and my body) to convincing myself I was straight. But it was bad enough that I wavered between feeling unable to trust myself at all and having full confidence in illogical ideas, which is enough to drive anyone crazy. Though even if I could have felt this sort of madness sinking in, I probably wouldn’t have done anything to prevent it. Even now, I don’t think I’d go back and change anything if I could. The points where I am the most unstable also seem to be the ones where I am the most creative, the most interesting, the most fearless.

It was this state of mind that led me to you. I think the candle must have been a little more than halfway burned at the point we met. This was after I first noticed the fruit fly but before I was fully fixated on it. I’m sure you remember meeting me, but I know it felt different for me than it did for you.

The only reason I found myself at Janie’s party in the first place was because Maye was going. I was in the mood to binge old John Waters movies and maybe get a little stoney. But Maye begged me to go with her so she didn’t have to show up alone, and I obliged. I had a soft spot for Maye’s persuasion. It was her that prevented me from fully slipping into the abyss of my own head. I mean that both for last summer, and since we met in the bathroom of her freshman dorm building where I was lost and in search of a rumored drug dealer. Though I’d be lying if I didn’t admit a little bit of selfish motivation in going to the party too, staying in that old house alone with all the fruit flies always freaked me out. Besides, a part of me knew you would be at the party. Maybe this intuition was just hope. But when hopeful intuition has a tendency to become reality, I tend to trust it.

❃ ❃ ❃

I didn’t notice you right away, but I did notice you as soon as Maye went to “smoke a cigarette” in her ex’s car. It was your hair I noticed first. I had never seen a woman with your haircut before, the way it was cropped short around the sides and your layered bangs reached only the middle of your forehead reminded me of the haircut my brother had in elementary school. Of course, then I noticed your beauty. Your hair, the way you stood, your baggy clothes made it clear you didn’t need people to see your beauty, but it was impossible for me to miss. I was immediately drawn to your self-assured stance, and the way your smile rested made your dimples rise so high on your cheeks that your eyes squinted down to slits. Whatever you were talking about had your friends leaning in with curiosity.

You got distracted when Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie” through the over-bassed speaker in the corner and started swaying your neck and dancing your head. I think this is when you first noticed me. You made eye contact with me and gave me a smile so radiant I felt like we were already friends. I wasn’t usually the type to introduce myself to strangers, but I was captivated by you. You were both what I was anticipating you to be and so much brighter. The way you moved was graceful and unfamiliar, altogether even more enticing than the lure of the fruit fly. Besides, with Maye missing in action for an indeterminate amount of time, I figured I had nothing to lose.

I crossed the dimly lit apartment and went to the kitchen first, trying to play it cool but also trying to calm my nerves. Out of the 20 or so people at the party I only knew a handful which gave me both a comfortable sense of anonymity and also the feeling of being really alone. Most people seemed easy enough to be around, college student age or a little older, though I can’t guarantee any of them went to school. If they did go to college, they definitely seemed to be from McDaniel’s. The liberal arts types, boys with long hair and piercings even I didn’t know the name of, and girls in wide-legged jeans, people who looked like they might work at a marijuana dispensary. People who once had a “banjo” phase. The people I did recognize were because Maye had brought them around the house sometimes. One girl I knew I had seen tagged in a few social media posts. Another person was a regular at the movie theater. There was a guy with a mustache playing a crappy Bob Dylan harmonica riff on a bean bag in the corner. Everyone was mostly just sitting around and chatting, reminding me that I was standing alone. I slipped out the two Xanax that were swimming loose in the pocket of my shorts and washed them down with a swig of room temperature Labatt Blue. I was drinking it more for the aesthetic than the alcohol content, so it was quickly becoming warm from within my sweaty palm.

By the time I reached the wall you were leaning on it seemed like you were expecting me. “I have never seen such a cool shirt,” you said. I was wearing an obnoxious denim button-up with the Planter’s Mr. Peanut mascot embroidered on the pocket. It was objectively ugly and positively an impractical choice to wear to a party, especially in the heat of the summer.

“You can have it if you want,” I said. “I’m really too warm in it anyway.” I realized this was probably a weird thing to say when you looked at me like I spat up a few of the fruit flies that were probably sliding across the unwiped surface of Maye and I’s kitchen counter back home. I was thankful when you took the comment in stride.

“Now that’s how you make an introduction.” You laughed and ran your hands over your temples pushing the tufts of hair behind your ears. “I’m Emerson but most people call me Emmie.” You thrust out an open palm to me, initiating a handshake. I thought this was weirdly formal for a party, but I put my hand in yours anyway. When your fingers closed around the back of my hand, I begged the Xanax to kick in and slow the deafening thump of my heartbeat. I can’t remember what happened to your friends, if they left or if I just don’t remember them standing around us.

“Cool, hi Emmie. I’m Kat.”

“Have I met you before Kat? You look SO familiar.” I panicked. Had I accidently liked one of your old Instagram or Facebook photos? I think you sensed my discomfort. I think you worked to make me feel at ease.

“Oh! Silly me! You’re Maye’s roommate, right? I think I’ve seen you around. I remember her talking about you having a, uh, intimate dream about our ceramics professor.” You giggled, “sorry, that’s probably not socially appropriate to bring up when first meeting someone. But in your defense, Ms. Farlie is really cute.” You giggled again, shook your head, and slapped your own forehead jokingly. I hardly had room to feel embarrassed about the fact that Maye shared that dream, I was working too hard not to be completely smitten by you.

“Oh jeez, I can’t believe Maye told anyone about that! I promise I’m not completely insane, I’m not really sure where that dream came from.” I laughed, mostly because I wasn’t sure what else to say.

“Hey, I don’t blame you at all. Like I said, Ms. Farlie is definitely worth having a crush on. To be honest, she was a played a significant part in my big gay awakening freshman year.” You laughed and I think I got a bit lightheaded. “So, did you having racy dreams about Ms. Farlie have anything to do with your own, yanno, gay self-realization?” You looked at me with a charming smirk and I wondered how much alcohol you’d had to make the words slip off your tongue with such ease so early in meeting me.

At first, it excited me how forward you were. But then I got confused. You asking me if I was into women? It was a fair assumption both because of the dream that was now apparently public information, and because of the way I looked. I was wearing corduroy bermudas, my grandpa’s shirt and having what Maye describes as “a really gay face.” But, well, a large part of me also believed that it was supposed to happen this way. I thought my attraction to you was too intense not to be reciprocated.

“What gives that away?” I let out a self-conscious laugh. I almost found it annoying how deeply we were talking in nuance, but even though I had been mostly-out for several years, confronting sexuality head-on like this still felt awkward to me. “Not really though. I guess my own ‘gay awakening,’” I put air quotes around the words, “happened back in high school. Maybe even middle school if I’m digging deep.” I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. You raised your eyebrows and looked at me expectantly.

“So then, you are, y’know. Into women?” I stuttered out, not fulfilling the suave image of myself I tried to manifest before I came to talk to you.

“I am. Only something I’ve realized recently actually. Before this summer I was dating the same guy since high school, so I’ve never really explored the sea, so to speak. But now I’m single and over him, over wallowing in my own loneliness, over men, if I’m being honest. At least for the time being.”

I tried not to be judgmental. I knew what you had with the guy who came before me was real. It prevented you from living the way I did, which was okay. In retrospect, my annoyance was immature. I was probably just a little jealous, both of your ex, and that you were in a presumably happy relationship blissfully unaware of yourself during the long years where I struggled to accept my own sexuality. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t want you to have to bear the same suffering that I had, it just seemed a little unfair that things would come so easily to you. I had imagined we would have been able to relate over similar pasts, so I just had to get used to the idea that things weren’t going to be the exact way they were in my head. Though a part of me still dismissed your previous relationship as irrelevant. He was barely in any of your social media posts.

“Well, I’m glad you're figuring things out.” I smiled at you and I hoped you thought it was inviting, not as grimace-like as it felt. I did want to support your experience, really, I just had to set aside my own emotional baggage first.

“Thanks.” You smiled at me like you believed the smile I gave you. “Talking to you is actually really nice. I mean I have gay friends and stuff, but a cute girl seeking me out at a party? It feels good.” You laughed and put a lingering touch on my arm. My heart jolted. It surprised me that I had been the one to seek you out. I wondered how this seemed so light, so easy to you. “Is it a turn off to you that I’ve never been with another woman before?” You asked, suddenly meeting my eyes with a gaze that was somehow both concentrated and unfocused. I looked into your plastic cup and wondered if you were drunk.

I think my mouth gaped open for a bit before you rescued me by commenting that we should refill our drinks. We walked over to the kitchen table and you navigated through the maze of empty bottles, dirty shot glasses, and lighters to find the liquor. You poured the store-brand rum into your cup with a heavy hand, only just barely topping it off with a bit of ginger ale.

“I don’t think it’s a turn off,” I finally said. “Everybody finds themselves at different times. Besides, it’s not like I have a wealth of experience or anything, myself.” I tried to say it as cool and breezy as you would’ve, but the vulnerability of the statement affected me. I worried my posture became unnaturally tense.

“Really? You looked me up and down. That’s surprising.” The eye contact and lingering arm touch was back, and I was all but immobilized. A sign that perhaps it shouldn’t have been surprising information for you. You took several full swallows of your mostly-rum drink.

“I know this is bold, so totally feel free to just walk away if this isn’t your thing, but do you want to help me, um, as you said, find myself?” You put your hand on my arm as you said it. I didn’t know what to say or if you meant sex or what, so I just swished a phlegmy loogie around in my mouth and hoped something would come through to distract us. It wasn’t that I wasn’t interested in you, the whole reason I’d come to talk to you in the first place is because I was. Because I had been (from a distance) for a long time. But all of a sudden, it felt a little demeaning that you only wanted to use me to confirm your sexual orientation.

❃ ❃ ❃

When I had first walked over to you, I imagined that we might decide that the party felt a little stuffy and then go for a walk. Perhaps after an enchanting discussion about the current political climate we would have discovered that we had the exact same ideology. In this daydream of mine, I then noticed how beautiful the naked night sky was and you found the perfect clearing to stargaze. We laid side by side on a plush field of grass in the warm night air with our shoulders brushing. As you were looking upward, we shared the most intimate bits of our childhoods, the ones that shaped who we have become. I might have told you about my childhood worm farm and you would have told me about your former unhealthy emotional investment in animal welfare. Then we’d fantasize about a future together where we’d become ethical self-sustaining farmers. You’d make a joke about how full self-sufficiency was the most “punk” a person could become. After a weighted pause, I might have turned toward you, my lips only a hair away from skimming the side of your freckled cheek. Feeling my breath on your skin, you would turn to me. We would hold this position, eyes locked, lips separated only by the thinnest sheet of atmosphere. Your exhale would be my inhale.

I guess now I better rewind a little bit. I know that I made it seem like I didn’t know who you were when I first noticed you, but that would be a misleading assumption. Even though you technically didn’t know who I was until after I had introduced myself, I went into the party looking for you. You were in the same pottery class as Maye, and she used to talk about you sometimes. I was always intrigued by Maye’s descriptions of you, so I looked you up. I found your Twitter account and read every single one of your 9,361 tweets, dating back to 2013. Once I started, I was sucked in. Your sense of humor was something I was both entertained by and jealous of. You posted screenshots of songs that became my favorites, went to art festivals I wasn’t bold enough to attend without knowing anyone. I knew you had an older sister that was married to a financial advisor and that your grandmother was both a devout Catholic and susceptible to fake news articles. I knew that your parents were divorced and that your dad had a grey cat named Gerald, but who often went by Gerry. I knew that your ex had been seeing someone new, someone with a private Instagram but who sold keto coffee powder on Facebook. Basically, I’d been privately following your online presence for several months and had a crush on you that had been consuming an embarrassingly large portion of my thoughts for the past few months. If my brain was a solar system you would be the sun. Everything revolved around you. It was the hunch I had that you’d be at the party that really influenced my decision to go.

After becoming consumed with the idea of you with that intensity I placed an immense amount of pressure on meeting you. You occupied so many of my thoughts, the version of you that existed within my head became my idea of the perfect person for me. It never occurred to me that you might not feel the same way after meeting me, I assumed we were so compatible we might actually be soulmates. When the connection was not exactly as immediate as I expected, when conversation didn’t flow easily, I was taken aback. When you alluded to wanting just a hook-up, it was jarring.

I had to compensate for this feeling somehow. I told myself it was only because you hadn’t really had the opportunity to get to know me yet. Obviously, you didn’t return my feelings—you hardly knew me outside a few awkwardly exchanged remarks. I had a comprehensive understanding of your online persona, so clearly, I thought I knew you as well as a person can be known.

❃ ❃ ❃

“You mean like, tonight?” I asked you. I was uncertain, I did want to be with you, but not like this.

You laughed. “You’re cute. Why, did you have some other plans for the rest of the evening?” You gestured around, probably suggesting that it didn’t really look like I had made any other friends at the party. “Sorry if this is too forward. But I’m pretty sure we’ve actually matched on Tinder before. And I just think you’re really attractive and I very much want to try things out. If that’s not your jive though, definitely turn me down.” You laughed again, holding your face on a pointed smirk and leaning on the wall for support. I didn’t know how you were navigating that conversation without a single drop of awkwardness. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought you made a habit of propositioning strangers for sex at parties. I didn’t expect this forwardness. Online you made fun of yourself a lot, I expected you to be less refined.

“Are you sure we’ve matched on Tinder? I think I’d definitely remember you.” I was purposely deflecting the question because I hadn't made up my mind yet. Besides, if we had matched on Tinder, I was pretty sure I’d remember that, considering the depth of my investment in your online presence.

“I think so? Even if we didn’t actually, it’s okay! We’re matching right here and now, live-action. It’s like we’re LARPing Tinder, you can’t deny the fate of that!”

I laughed. “Okay you’re right I can’t pass this moment up. I might not get the opportunity to feel like I’m in an 80s coming of age film again.” I said, remembering the time you tweeted about a fierce appreciation for Sixteen Candles.

“No way. There were no gay people in 80s movies!” You almost laughed but it got caught in a hiccup. I wondered again how drunk you were.

“Alright. I’m not committing to anything but seeing where this goes,” I said. “I wouldn’t be opposed to getting out of here, but I came with my roommate who I would be willing to bet, is using her car for purposes other than driving us home right now.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I live here,” you said, and I didn’t know how I missed that significant piece of information. Had I never run into any indication of your living situation online? All of a sudden, I was overwhelmed by the feeling that I didn’t know you as well as I thought I did.

“Oh cool.” I didn’t know where things were supposed to go from here. Sure, I’d had a few random hookups here and there, but only after I was drunk enough not to worry about the logistics. Definitely not enough random hookups for it to feel natural. Besides, I wasn’t treating this like a random hookup, I had hoped that this hookup would quickly transform itself into a deep, perhaps life-altering, connection. How was I supposed to act cool with the weight of that pressure on my back?

“Soo, how would you like to see my bedroom? I must warn you I have a very delightful tropical fish named Patricia.” You giggled again and I wondered if the pressure was starting to get to you too.

“I cannot very well go on without meeting Patricia, so I suppose we better go.”

Your bedroom was both exactly what I expected and not at all what I had envisioned. It was small and filled-up by a bed draped with a lumpy homemade quilt. There were some records that had been painted over hung on the wall, a plant in the corner that looked like it could use watering, or maybe some more sun. There was a small desk next to the bed covered with scattered papers and some half-dead baby’s breath in a mason jar of yellow water. It had a lived-in hominess but also a feel of chaos. My nose was confused by the sharp mixed scent of essential oils and old weed.

“Welcome to my humble abode, make yourself comfortable.” You sat cross-legged on the bed and gestured for me to come next to you. I didn’t know why I had such trouble coming up with anything to say, I didn’t usually have any shortage of quick remarks. But your presence next to me, the intensity of my feelings for you, and the pressure of the expectations I had for what I wanted us to become had made all the spit in my mouth dry up, rendering me speechless.

“This is an interesting scar, what’s it from?” Your finger danced across the u-shaped pink mark on the top of my thigh, finally coming to rest on the part of my leg just below where my shorts ended.

“Oh. Last summer I dropped a piece of broken wine glass on it. It was stupid, my roommate broke it trying to kill a bug. I was so stupid drunk I didn’t even feel it when it cut.” When I laughed you traced over the scar again.

“Well, I don’t think it’s stupid, I think it’s cute.” You leaned in closer to me and brushed a piece of hair behind my ear. We were on the brink of kissing but all I could think was that this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. It felt too soon, too sleazy, too within earshot of like 20 other people. If I wasn’t nearly sober, I probably would’ve leaned in to close the gap between us without thinking. But there was almost no alcohol in my body, and you smelled like the type of cheap perfume that the bitchy girls that went to my high school used to wear.

I tried looking deeper into your eyes to see if I could find some meaning there but you closed them and gently puckered your lips. God damn it. I didn’t know what else to do so I just leaned into it. You did not enter the situation gently, lips immediately pushing mine open to make room for your tongue. You tasted like cheap rum and a little bit like bad breath. I pulled back just as your hand curled around the small of my back.

“Is this okay?” You asked. Your pupils were dilated all the way and I wondered if it was from the alcohol or me. I wondered if I pulled myself from this situation if I’d ever have another chance with you.

“Actually, I’m not sure.” My brain wasn’t forming clear thoughts, so I didn’t know what to do.

“Okayy but I can tell you like me. And I like you a lot. I think tonight is the perfect opportunity for us to explore....” You trailed off for a second before giggling and gesturing between us. “This, what’s the issue with that?” You batted your eyelashes and ran your hands up and down my arms. A shiver went through me and rubbed me the wrong way.

“I don’t know. The problem is that I’m just not feeling it tonight. Sorry.” I scooted away from you and I have a feeling the look I gave you wasn’t gentle. Then, you started to look nervous.

“Shit, Kat. I’m sorry. I don’t want to pressure you or anything, that’s not what I meant.” I could tell your eyes were getting glossy with tears and I really hoped you wouldn’t cry. “It’s just, I like you. I don’t know how else to express it. All of the times I’ve been with people before, well you know they’ve all been dudes. It went like this. I don’t know how else it's supposed to be.” You tucked your knees into your chest and leaned against the headboard so you were fully facing me, but you didn’t look at my face.

“You could just be genuine. Do what feels natural. How do you even know you like me anyway? You hardly know me?” I kept my gaze fixed at the top of your bent knees.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. You seem like so much yourself. I’d like to know you better.” Facing you this close and now actually looking at you, I could see the small peach fuzz hairs that grew across your cheeks, that the pores on your nose were larger than all of the others, and that there was the remnant of a once inflamed pimple between your eyebrows. I found these details comforting. Despite the way you existed solely in my head for so long, these details confirmed that you were a real person. A real person that maybe I didn’t actually know, only the side that you showed the internet. This realization left me feeling drained and let down, though it didn’t necessarily dissuade my investment in you. Maybe not knowing you wasn’t such a bad thing, maybe you not being what I expected would give me the opportunity to know you. To actually know you.

“Yeah. I think I’d like to get to know you better too. Maybe we can hang out again, under, uh, different circumstances?” I asked and you nodded, sucking in some air between your teeth.

“I’m drunk,” you announced, I couldn’t tell if this was an explanation, an excuse, or just a filler. I was caught again by the flailing feeling of not knowing quite what to say but was comforted by the fact that you finally didn’t know quite what to say either. I stood up and offered you my hand.

“Should we get back to the party?” I asked. You took my hand.

“Sorry,” you said. I didn’t know which part of the night you were apologizing for. You were hiccupping again, maybe from intoxication or maybe from trying not to cry. I wondered if I’d actually hear from you again after this night or not.

When we got back out to the living room it looked like the party had halved, something I was grateful for. I felt nauseous about the prospect of making small talk with near strangers after that and I felt a little weird about your hand in mine too. All of a sudden, I felt a loud presence approaching me from behind.

“KAT! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” It was Maye. She wore a smile so genuine it almost stung. She didn’t smell like cigarette smoke for some reason. Then she took in you next to me, her eyes hesitating at our clasped palms, which were quickly dampening with a culmination of our sweat. She raised her eyebrows at me. I dropped your hand, rubbing the sweat onto my shorts in a motion that was as natural as I could muster.

“Er, sorry, are you ready to leave?” My voice cracked exposing the sudden gawkiness I couldn’t seem to shake.

“Excuse me? Emmie and Kat? Now this is a combination I could have only dreamed of! I don’t know why I haven’t introduced the two of you sooner!” Maye said it with a zeal she usually saved for professors on the verge of bumping her grade up and older men at the bar. I cursed the situation and tried to send her a sign she was misreading things. She put her hand on the top of my arm and pushed me closer to you. “Emmie, did you know that Kat also does newspaper crossword puzzles? Other than my dear old grandmother the two of you are the only people I’ve met that actually enjoy those! Though if I were a betting woman, I wouldn’t bet that you were exploring your love of crosswords when you were upstairs, now were you?” Maye laughed and winked. I would have willed the ability to pass out on command if I didn’t want to see the way you’d react so badly.

I looked at you and your eyes were trained on the space below your knees. You looked like you’d smelled something sour. Was it me or was it what Maye said? The look in your eyes fueled the insecurity that had already been threatening to pour out of me. I felt like it was me who put you in this situation you just wanted out of, I just had to decide that the one moment you finally wanted me was the one I wasn’t sure if I wanted you back. Or rather, that you didn’t want me the same way I wanted you. Regardless, I felt responsible for the situation and wanted to give us both some reprieve, only I didn’t know how. I panicked. If Maye had only read the situation better, or if she didn’t have to try so hard to set us up, we wouldn’t have been stuck there.

“Nope, no crosswords. But not what you’re probably thinking either. We were just, um, getting to know each other a little bit. I got to meet Emmie’s fish, Patricia.” It came out so awkward I’m sure I visibly cringed. Maye suddenly looked confused, finally getting the sense of the tension in the air.

“Well, it was nice to meet you Kat.” You gave me a small closed-mouth smile and something inside me pinged with regret for being the one to dull its intensity. You pulled me in for a hug and I found myself not wanting to let go. I didn’t want that to be the end. When you turned to walk back upstairs, you didn’t look back.

❃ ❃ ❃

Once I got back home that night, I fought the immediate urge to check your Twitter profile and see if you tweeted anything about me, or about the night. Instead, I took a grounding breath and lit my bedroom candle, waiting for the fruit fly to reveal himself. On second thought, I opened Twitter. Getting to your profile was easy because it was my most recent search. Rather than reading through your tweets again, I pushed the follow button. I thought really hard about pushing the envelope icon too, sending you a message. Maybe an apology for the way I had handled the end of the night. Maybe asking for your phone number, or if you wanted to see me again. Maybe some combination of them all. But I didn’t. I want you to know that I wish I would have.