My Albatross

I

“So, are you a foodie?” He asked, smirking as he took a sip of his whiskey. His appearance is quaint. He’s dressed up for today, wearing a red button down and dress pants. I’ve been on a date almost every day this week, and most guys have dressed pretty casually. He’s uptight; I can tell. I feel bad almost; my outfit is shit really. I should have worn a dress, but you know, hindsight is 20-20. I’m not sure what he meant by that. Am I a foodie? Does he mean do I like cooking, or does it mean if I like food? Who doesn’t like food? Someone who doesn’t like food might as well not like air. It’s just plain weird. His condescending smirk suggests that the question had a double meaning. I think he knows that it is a common question, but he’s probably said it to suggest I might not look how he thought I would. I replied, “Well, kind of… but not really. I’m good at cooking so I guess…it’s hard to dislike food if it tastes really good.” I gave an inviting smile, hiding that I found that question insulting. Why would he ask that... do I seem fat to you? I know we met on the internet but come on! Have some decency. You’re not so great yourself! At least please try to hide your inner thoughts for goodness sake.

The server came over and I ordered a tall glass of Merlot. “You know, I have the drink menu here if you want to take a look,” he said. This confirms that he is most definitely uptight. No sir, I do not want to see the drink menu. I want to drink my wine, thank you very much. I could feel that he was judging me, but it was okay because I was judging him too. If I wanted a mixed drink from the menu, I would have ordered one. The balls on this guy! To be honest, I did not feel that we would get along. I see right through him: self-obsessed jerk who thinks that the world revolves around him. Instead of starting a fight with this stranger over a drink, I smiled and replied, “Nope, that’s fine. Thank you. What about you, do you cook?” He does not answer right away. He is not looking at me; he’s staring down at the menu. I did not repeat the question, but rather I stared at him for a while. Are we having a competition of apathy—one in which we compete to see who cares about the other less? He’s been scanning this menu for an unusually long time. I mean, for goodness sake, it’s not very long. The menu is only a page. Then again, sometimes they say the hardest questions tend to be noticeably short and simple. At this point, I thought he had not heard me. I was just about to ask again when he barely looked up and said, “Oh no, I suck at cooking.” Charming! Well, this date is a dud. He doesn’t seem to be interested, and we’re not talking much at all.

I start to look at the menu too, as it seems seafood is going to be the highlight of my night tonight. Everything on here is much more expensive than I thought it would be. I really hope he pays. He’s older anyway; his career has had more time than mine and he makes more money than I do. He has had more time to figure life out, so I feel like he should pay. Besides, notwithstanding the feminist movement that ultimately allowed me to so eloquently complain about him, there is still a well-known tradition that men pay for the first date. I think. Do you know how they say order the lobster if you are not having a great time? I think I might order the king crab. I look over at him to see what kind of look he is giving the menu. Is it a “holy shit this is expensive” look, or is it more of a “should I have the steak tips or mac-and-cheese” type of look? He can feel me looking at him, and he looks up at me. I immediately look down at the wooden table. The interior of this place is a bit more rustic than it appeared online. The place is a hotspot in Boston’s Seaport district, well known for its seafood and lively atmosphere. I pass it all the time on my way home from work, but the inside is a bit different than I thought it would be. It is giving me “Summer weekend in Vermont” vibes. The tables, benches, chairs, bar, and walls are all wooden. The bar seats and columns have been painted red to accent the nautical theme. There are not many people here, but that is probably because we came here on a Sunday. There is a shelf that falls just barely below the ceiling that holds nautical knick-knacks. On the shelf directly in front of me, there is a giant plastic crab. It must be a sign; I must get this crab.

I wonder if he has noticed my silence. Gazing out the window at Boston’s skyline reflection in the harbor water, I suddenly remember that only have $2.33 left in my checking account. Avoiding conversation tonight is not an option, unfortunately. Luckily, he came up with something to say. He looked up at me and said, “So, are you originally from Boston?” “Nope, I’m from Westchester but I went to college in Waltham and stayed in Massachusetts after graduation. What about you?” This is the first time he has looked at me all night. There is something about his behavior that makes me feel inadequate. His apathy makes me want to impress him, but his apathy also makes me not want to give a shit really. He isn’t being mean, but he seems judgmental and snarky. He said, “No. I’m actually originally from the Palo Alto area. Westchester, huh. What was that like?” That’s a weird question. I’m confused. How is being from Westchester supposed to be like? This guy is giving me snob vibes, and I do not feel close enough to him to open up about being poor. I think my confusion showed on my face. All I could let out was a soft “It was fine. Just suburbs.” I wasn’t being dismissive; I just had a boring childhood. I didn’t grow up wealthy, but I didn’t grow up super poor either. My parents don’t have fancy jobs and I surely wasn’t a legacy applicant to my college. There was nothing to discuss regarding that topic, so I didn’t say much. He has a very expressive face. His eyes widened as if he knew I was keeping something from him. I can tell he is bored of me, but he’s too nice to say it. Palo Alto, what a delightfully exotic place to be from. I have never met someone from Palo Alto; there may be hope yet.

It sort of makes sense that he is from Palo Alto. This is how I imagine people from Palo Alto are like. His voice is noticeably different from that of a man from the East Coast. Boston and New York men speak loudly. On dates, they make it clear that they have money, because “that is all women care about” of course. Faithfully unwilling to dive further than the surface appearance of their date, the night may conclude with the only conversation being where we went to school and what we do for a living. More importantly, East Coast men do not typically part their hair down the middle. This guy is cute in that way, he’s different. On his profile, he claims to be capable of winning any Broadway trivia. I love musicals, and so I thought it’d be nice to see which ones he likes. I have never heard of his favorite, but when he asked me about mine, my mind went completely blank. I legitimately cannot remember the name of one musical that I have seen. I have been worrying so much about appearing normal that I had just now forgotten my own personality and interests. What I should have said was perhaps Chicago, Company, or Singing in the Rain. Do you know what I said though? I did not say any of those things. I said, “Legally Blonde is good.. um.. there are others too, but I can’t think of them now for some reason.” What a dumb-dumb! The vodka is setting in now, and I’m getting comfortable with being extremely uncomfortable. I’m smiling, even though he still feels distant. Nothing that I am saying is making any sense or is representative of my true interests. That’s not a good sign. He must think I’m a bimbo. But you’d have to be pretty in order to be a bimbo, don’t you? And I, apparently, look like a foodie.

“So, what do you do?” I asked. I researched him online before coming on the date, but I was curious to see what he would say. The guy went to Yale for undergrad but dropped out his junior year. Then apparently, he worked in a research lab at Stanford after. Because you know, after you drop out of college, Stanford jobs practically fall out of the sky. Then, one day he wakes up with a brilliant idea to revolutionize the biotech industry. He has even given a TED Talk about it. Given his attitude, I figure this question would give him a chance to do what he likes most: focus on himself. But he didn’t bite the bait. “I’m a programmer” is all he said. Intriguing, I expected much different. Is this a humility trap, one where he is purposely vague only to spark curiosity in the other that leads to obsession or codependence? Being mysterious will get you far with me. I’ll play along. I pretended as if I did not know a thing. “What is a programmer anyway? Do you write code?” This is his second whiskey on the rocks now. As he took another small sip of the bitter brown liquid and began to speak, he looked at me. We locked eyes, and for some reason, I felt something. It was eye contact, yes, but not the kind that I can explain. He has pretty eyes when he’s actually looking at me. “Not quite,” he went on. “You see, I’ve developed a camera.” Okay, this guy is really into over-simplification. “A camera? You’ve made a camera… because you’re a programmer?” I inquired. You know, I am usually resistant to feelings, but you have captured my attention. Insulting and lacking are words that I can use to describe my conversation with you thus far, but there is a shyness about you that feels sincere. I cannot tell whether the overconfidence is a façade to protect the shy and humble side of you or if it is all a purposefully crafted act of a personality that conveniently makes you appear sincere. Why flaunt your achievements on your profile and then dodge talking about yourself in person? You are so different from what I am used to, and I cannot help but be pulled in. There is just something about you that makes me want to know more. He has warmed up to me a bit, and perhaps that is because the vodka is making me act less shy. He answered my camera critique with, “Yes, I suppose it does require the use of some coding languages, but it’s probably not what you’re thinking of.” As I said, I already researched him quite a bit before showing up tonight, so I am going to stop with the questions for now. It does not seem like he wants to talk about it anyway.

Before I’m judged for being a complete stalker, just know that his internet profile said he was the CTO of a start-up company. Yale, CTO, and a profile photo of him giving a TED Talk would make anyone look his ass up to see if it were all true. It was reasonable, you know! I’m terrible at conversation with others. I want to end this interrogation while still giving the impression that I am having a good time. I merely replied with “Oh, I see um.. well that’s cool.” Yeah, this is awkward. I did my best though. He is oblivious to my apprehension. We make eye contact again, and this time he sends a sneaky smirk my way again. What is his deal? Why does he keep looking at me like that? We looked at each other in silence for maybe half a minute when he made the most natural move to return the question. Hmm, I want to lie so badly. I want to seem as impressive as he is, but I suck at lying. Also, you should never start a relationship on lies. This is not a relationship, though. I may never see him again. This is so nervewrecking, you know! I should have gone first. How can I beat Yale and TED Talk? Then again, it is not about winning. You cannot win in love. But then again also, we’re not in love! He called me fat just two minutes ago. Okay Sammie, you got this. You are a boss and so very good at things. I mean, I’m not bad at life but certainly not as good as he is. This is not a hard question, and it was not meant to be really. I’m just going to tell the truth. The server came over to take our order before I can answer. I ordered half a dozen oysters to start and a regular order of snow crab for the main. He ordered a lobster roll with fries. The lobster roll was market price, and the snow crab was $31. We’ve ordered two drinks each, half a dozen oysters, a lobster roll and an order of snow crab. I should have just ordered the king crab. Clearly, money is not a big deal to this person. Either that, or I am secretly paying for half.

I still had not answered the question. He probably has done his research as well, and if that is true then what is there to be shy about? It’s time to put on some confidence! Just tell him! “I work in patent prosecution as a case assistant at a mid-sized law firm. I keep track of prior art for pharmaceutical companies and universities. It’s like a paralegal almost… super boring really.” He seemed surprised but in a good way. His apathetic attitude transformed into enthusiasm as if now I was suddenly of interest to him. “Oh wow! That is pretty cool. I actually did some of my own prior art management for a tiny bit but that quickly became excessive. It’s much easier to hire a law firm to do it.” Of course! Of course, he knows what prior art is, and for some reason, he was managing his own prior art. I feel like that is not possible, like how? I’m just picturing him in front of a computer with five monitors. Three with coding language on it, one with his legal stuff, and another with his own weird wonder-kid activities on it. It is unreal that he undertook his own legal work. I’ve been working at this law firm for almost two years, and I still barely know what I am doing at times. I like him. I feel like I like him, but I am not sure why. He impresses me, but that shouldn’t equate to love. Love is attraction, kindness, or maybe romance. Is this romance? I feel so out of place, like an imposter who has not been found out yet. He thinks I am someone different from who I am, and that is who he is into. If he actually knew everything about me, would he still be into me?

The oysters came out before the rest of the food. Boston is known for its seafood, but the oysters are actually to die for. After eating two, I noticed he hasn’t touched them at all, so I ask him about it. He says he doesn’t like seafood. What kind of psychopath agrees to come to a seafood restaurant in Boston for the first date if they dislike seafood! Am I really that good-looking in my profile pictures? I told him he should try one, and he seems really scared. It’s funny actually. This should be good; I’m feeling oddly sadistic all of a sudden. “Okay, how do I eat this exactly?” he asks, and I said “I usually use the tiny fork to eat the meat and then slurp the juices after. It’s pretty good.” He doesn’t like my answer. He replies, “But what is the correct way to do it?” I’m not amused. I’m also the serious type, but I do not tend to enjoy talking to other uptight people. “I guess technically you’re supposed to suck the liquid and meat out at the same time.” He tried, and a dramatic grimace overtook his face. It was actually really cute. There is something about watching this guy in vulnerability that made this all worth it. “I think I might let you have the oysters” he offered. Offered accepted. I win, and it was well worth the banter.

Our main courses arrived shortly after. He’s ordered a lobster roll with truffle fries. I love truffle fries, and I’ve also just gotten out of a long-term relationship, so I have no sense of boundaries. “Hey! Can I have a fry?” He tells me to help myself, and I do. The arrival of the food keeps him smiling for a bit, but I can’t open my crab. My food comes with a bib and crab cracker. “It’d be fun to see you wear it.” He says, and now I believe that he also has a sadistic side. “Umm no thank you.” I said at first, but he looked sad. When he is disappointed his eyes look huge, like a sad puppy. I really do not like to see people disappointed in me, but I also hate looking foolish. I begrudgingly try to put the plastic cover over my chest and struggled to tie it around my neck. It was getting tangled in my hair, so I gave up. He’s smiling again, probably because I looked silly putting it on. Now we have both embarrassed ourselves. He’s offered to show me the musical he likes, and it seems to be a clear invitation to other things. He’s apparently has it saved on his television, and he’d like me to come home with him to watch it. I’m currently wearing clothes from high school and have not contributed significantly to the conversation so I’m a bit surprised that he invited me over. I didn’t plan for anything to happen on this date. It’s still a bit too soon since I’ve broken things off with Noah just a few days ago. Yet, after three vodka sodas, I am feeling a bit frisky. And, his physique is looks much better when he’s standing up. He’s taller than I originally thought, probably 6’0’’ or 6’1’’. This is the kind of thing I do. I find myself in a situation where I have plenty of time to make the right decision, but I choose the wrong one anyway. Well, to be fair to myself I don’t know if this the wrong decision just yet. He might be nice. Let’s just see where this goes.

We step out the restaurant onto the harbor dock to order a cab. We don’t say anything to each other. It’s drizzling a bit, and although it is a Sunday night, there are people on the street. I want to make it clear that I am not an easy lay and nothing promiscuous will be happening tonight. I told him that we probably will not be having sex today because my time of the month may be approaching. “Can we make out?” was his reply. Did I hear him correctly? I think he’s just asked me if we can make out. He doesn’t talk to me much, but in the little that he says I can tell a lot. He’s judgmental, accomplished and humble. He hates oysters and likes whiskey. His behavior suggests that he is not a player, but I still feel like he is playing a game. He’s got me. I feel like I can trust him. You know, Mr. Palo Alto is really growing on me. In the past, men that I’ve dated did not ask if we can make out. They usually just shove their face and tongues at me. Hence, I am no longer dating those men. I guess this is kind of nice and romantic. We’re alone on a rainy Sunday night with the Financial District in view. Oops, I haven’t answered yet. He must think I have a slow reaction time or something by now. We’re looking into each other’s eye again, and I feel paralyzed by his glance. There is something here. Who is this man? The magical glance only lasted a second, but the second felt long. I pulled away from the eye contact first. “Maybe.” I replied.

He’s called us a cab to his apartment. In the cab we get to know each other a bit more. He confessed that he has heard of my firm; he worked with us for business formation. He’s using our competitor for patent prosecution, but I assured him that I am not offended. It is actually better that he is not a client. I’m sure it would have made this whole thing awkward anyway. I asked him about his ethnicity, because it’s kind of what black people do when they first meet each other. He says he is half but does not specify what he is half of. When I asked, he acts as if this is the first time someone has asked him to clarify something. He appears to be surprised easily. It turns out his father is Caucasian and his mother was Indian. She has passed away, but he didn’t mention when. His father and twin brother both still reside in the Bay Area. I’ve heard of the company his father works for, and I made a comment about business news I read on a screen while on the elevator. I shouldn’t have, for he instantly became defensive about this company’s stock prices and quarterly revenue. I don’t care that much, and I voiced that. I was just making conversation. Bad conversation, I was making bad conversation. My parents aren’t businessmen. My mother is a nurse and my father worked in real estate. I ask him about his time in Boston so far, and he doesn’t have much to say. He’s liked it so far, but he misses California. He’s been here for about two years, so I ask him if he has heard of a few of the hotspots for nightlife. He has not. We arrived at his place about 11 minutes after being picked up – he’s living downtown. I’d say that’s a good thing, but he is barely older than me and now I am curious as to how much he’s making off this teledermatolgy thing. Though, I don’t bring it up. The building is grandiose from afar, but normal once inside. The front entrance is partially hidden, we have to walk into an underground garage a bit. You need an electronic key card to open the front door, and there is a woman behind a desk guarding the entrance. Brendan is his name. Brendan, what are we doing here? What will this become? This is only the first date, and so I will try not to think of it so much. I may never see him again, just have fun Sammie. Not everything means something.

I feel like he does not speak with women very often. He is very awkward, and that is not necessarily a bad thing because I am also very awkward. When we entered the elevator, he started smiling at me again, leading me to think perhaps he was just being shy during dinner. I could be wrong though, maybe he is happy because he’s picturing us doing much more than just making out. It’s hard to tell, really. We’re going to the 34th floor of 50. This feels like the longest elevator ride in my life. Crickets are chirping in my head, for I don’t know what to say or do. I look over to my happy looking date who is standing not that far from me. I think were supposed to kiss now, but I don’t usually kiss people. I’m weird like that, I find it harder to kiss them than to sleep with them. Well, that’s a problem that warrants a visit to the therapist if there ever was one. He wants to kiss me but does not know how, I can tell. Good thing, I probably would not kiss him back right now. I just don’t feel ready. The first kiss has to be special. The ambiance has a to be right: romantic and private with music or a show in the background. Now that we’re standing next to each other, I feel like he is much cuter than I first thought. He’s so tall and the smile on his face is so cute. No kiss now, but maybe when we get inside.

His apartment is a one bedroom with a walk-in closet. The kitchen greets visitors as you walk in, but it’s merely a granite countertop enclosing some cabinets and a refrigerator. Behind it is the living room, which seems to have a skyline view. I had not finished my crab, so I put it in the fridge when I walked in. The fridge has nothing in it, only some energy drinks and a bottle of water. I guess he wasn’t kidding when he said he doesn’t cook. Making myself comfortable, I take off my shoes and walk towards the living room window. It’s a huge window, covering nearly the entire wall. There are two tables. One that is small and round closer to the kitchen and another long rectangular table that separates the sofa and the television. I love a city view. As a child I always watched movies about Manhattan and dreamed about living in a big building on the Upper East Side like in Uptown Girls. That didn’t happen though, I rent a cheap room in Quincy now. From his window you can see everything. The Prudential Center is his neighbor. It’s a giant building that is part mall, part business complex. From way up high, I see two bikers trying to finagle through traffic, friends smiling and chatting while passing through the bridge that connects everything, and a lot of cars driving down the street. From above the commotion, the Boston skyline seems so still. Did you know, this apartment is surrounded by skyscrapers which shine light so bright you can see them from Brandeis’ castle in faraway Waltham. Everything this man has I want so badly. Do I like him, or do I like his life? Am I jealous or in love? I have no answers for myself, but I continue to gaze out the window at the lifestyle that I am so close to attaining yet so far away. This is nice, but it isn’t my view. I barely know him, but everything about him seems so annoyingly perfect. I do this a lot. I follow adventure in hope of an experience that makes me feel extraordinary, but the adventure is only a day. It is a temporary event rather than a permanent installment. I feel like a phony; I feel like an imposter. I have no idea what I am doing in this man’s apartment. Yes, I like him, but I barely know him. He seems really great. I mean, really, really great for me. Staring out the window like this was a bad idea because now I see that it could never work between this guy and me. We’re too different, and he will never accept me for who I really am.

He put on the movie while I was looking out the window. I sat down at the far opposite of the loveseat, as today I am trying to be a lady who doesn’t lose control on the first date. The film is not what I expected at all. It appears old, maybe from the 1970s, depicting some sort of scenario from medieval times. It may be the drinks, but I am not following the plot at all. Even if I was sober, I probably still couldn’t follow what was going on. This seems like a film I was shown in college, but I didn’t really like or pay attention to that one either. It’s probably a good sign that this is what he’s interested in. To some extent it shows that he is cultured, delving into activities and interests that aren’t mainstream. He could also just be a hipster.

I’m horny, but I’m trying to hide it. I want to seem interested in the movie. I want him to think I like this movie because I like him. I’m not like just some random date. I want to be remembered for my personality, not my body. After seven minutes, I take a look over at him to check if he’s actually paying attention to this. Yep, he’s actually watching the movie. Not to worry, I certainly did not want to get sexually involved anyway as I’m not the kind of girl that gets sexually involved with people I just met. I am a class act, one that has plenty of experience with defeating temptation. Yep, that’s me. He took off the red button-down shirt to reveal a plain band tee shirt. Oh, my goodness. His arms look so good in that shirt. I don’t need it. I don’t need it. I am not going to break; the key to a long-lasting relationship is trust and respect. Grandmas and mothers everywhere say that having sex on the first date does not go well in the end, and so I, Sammie Hearst, will not taint your view of me.

Things are happening on the screen, but I can’t pay attention. All I can think of is what type of lover you might be. When you look into my eyes, I get all gushy. I can’t speak. I can’t think. This is what you do to me. I can feel Brendan looking at me. I turned to look over and I think he is feeling the same way I am. He’s moved over to the middle of the couch, and now he is within an arm’s length of me. I need to experience his touch; I’m not cut out for conventional waiting. He places his hand on mine, and I gasp. The sexual tension has built out of proportion now. I don’t care anymore; I’m just going to do it. I looked at him with wide eyes, enraptured by the chemistry between us. So many feelings unspoken, and for some reason, I feel in my heart that I have found someone special. Our lips touch and his kiss gives sweet satisfaction. All that build-up was not just hype. My heart is exploding. I need to feel him. I want him so badly, but I shouldn’t. Our lips meet again, but this time our lips do not part. When we kiss, it is as if we’d known each other for a long time. I’ve only known this man for three hours, how is it possible that I feel this way? We pulled away, but our eyes are locked in with each other. They’re so beautiful and deep, and it does not help that his hair is in his face. This curly-haired man with deep eyes is something else for sure. One minute he is this nerdy, distant, I’m-smarter-and-better-than you person, and then boom! He turns into this sex god. This exotically alluring man with big arms. Kudos man, it’s impressive. Then, he rose his hand to my face and caressed my cheek. I can’t breathe; I’ve never felt this with anyone else. I had moved towards the center of the sofa by now. One of my hands has met his and the other is pressing down on the couch for stability; he’s far gentler than he seems. I want to stop here to preserve the integrity of the relationship, but I also do not want to stop. His hand moved from my cheek to my back, and I gasped a bit. We shared another gaze. I don’t know why I did that – it wasn’t on purpose. I feel so close to him already when just moments ago I judged the way he ate his lobster roll. Now that his hands are pulling me in, there’s no going back. I’m mesmerized by his touch and I need more.

Being the girl that I am, I climbed over to sit on his lap facing him... you know, to excite him a bit. His eyes are wide with an intense yearning expression, still staring into mine. We’re no longer kissing, and his hands have dropped down to his sides. It doesn’t feel awkward and it doesn’t feel forced. He has submitted himself to me. I’m curious, and so I reached down. He’s rock hard. In my head, I hadn’t realized that touching him to check would make him more excited. He parted his lips slightly ajar as if he wants to say something, but there is nothing to say. A bit overwhelmed with the turn of events, I no longer have a plan. Acting up is fun when you don’t feel anything for the other person, but physical contact initiated by intense emotional connection is something I hadn’t planned for today. I got up and off, saying that I had to use the restroom. Right as I stood up, he said “Is it okay if we move things to the bedroom. I’d like to cuddle if that is okay with you. We can just be extra careful to not have sex.” He’s referring to my comment from earlier, but I actually lied. I’m not on my period at all; I just wanted to take it slow. I wanted him to think of something other than sex when he looks at me. Also, I don’t usually open up to people, and I don’t have sex on the first date. I don’t know this guy, you know? What if he’s like a stalker, or even worse, what if I end up liking him? I like snuggling, though. I kind of do want to cuddle.

When I got out of the bathroom, the lights in the living room and kitchen had been turned off. The bedroom is immediately to the left of the restroom. The light is also off in the bedroom. There is only one light, beaming in from the right side from the walk-in closet. Surprisingly, or perhaps not so much so, his bedroom is bare. There are no posters, except for one that I cannot make out right now and his walls aren’t painted. There’s barely any furniture. The room only contains his bed, closet, and two bed stands from what I can see. The window in here is similar to that of the living room in that it also spans across the entirety of one of the walls. There’s an even better view from the bedroom. The department store and grocery store aren’t in view from here. It’s just Boston. Lucky, it must be nice having such a nice apartment at a young age. This is why people hate the rich. I hope this guy’s business is super successful; how much does a place like this cost anyway? When I walked into the room, he was lying on the bed with his clothes still on. I mean, at least he didn’t take his clothes off. I feel like he’s being forward but secretive about his intentions. I feel like the average person can tell what is happening here. No one just cuddles in a dark room on the first date. I’ll play along; let’s see what lover man has planned.

I walked toward the bed to lay down next to him. We lifted the sheets and got into a spooning position. It’s weird, because I’m really into him, but this just doesn’t feel right. I’m so used to feeling Noah cuddle me, and Noah is much bigger than Brendan. A cuddle is a cuddle, though. I don’t feel like there can be a bad cuddle. I turned around to face him. I want to look into his eyes forever; I just feel so seen. Like the actual me, my soul feels seen. I kissed him, short and sweet. I said that I was happy that I’ve met him. He smiled and said that he has had a good time with me tonight. I said, “me too.” Then, I kissed him again. This time, a bit more passionately. His arms are around me, pulling me to him. We’re chest to chest now, and in the partial darkness only illuminated by the closet light and that of the Boston night sky, I gave him a tiny butterfly kiss. I pulled off my top, and so does he. His chest is broad and defined. There seems to be a tattoo on his left arm, but I can’t see what it says. His hand moved from my waist to my back slowly and gently. It’s a tender caress, affectionately moving up and down the middle. I took my head and placed it on his shoulder. He closed the gap to reciprocate the gesture, cocooning me in his body warmth. My face seems to fit so perfectly in this space, almost like it was made for me. His hands moving up and down my back slowly makes me want to do the same. When I touched his back, he made a tiny groan, as if he had anticipated my touch there for a good while now. I moved out of my little space to look at him again. I sat up to unhook my bra and took it off. He began to unbuckle his pants and pulled them off to throw them on the adjacent floor. I again approached his chest to feel the warmth again, and he wraps his arms around me.

I got curious again, and I moved my hand down there to check. He was only semi when I got there but hardened upon being touched. I pulled off my skirt and underwear and climbed on top of him. He looked at me concerned, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I want you to be fully consenting to anything that happens.” Every time he asks me for permission to do something or stops to make sure I consent I just feel more attracted to him; the sensitivity is extremely rare and cute. I told him that I was sure. As soon as I did, he flipped me over and entered me slowly.

We made love for hours. So much energy on this one! I can’t say I didn’t get tired after the first two times, but he’s so hot that I quickly got ready again. And, at the end when we knew we were for sure done for today, I placed my face on his chest for a bit to make the moment of tonight last a bit longer. I can see what his tattoo says now. It says, “Believe in the unthinkable.” I want to know so much more about him. I want to deep condition his hair and make him curry when he gets home from work. I want to have his arms around me all the time and to feel his kiss on my forehead daily. I’m so tired from all that; still cuddled in his chest I closed my eyes for a tiny bit. When he saw me close my eyes, he woke me up and said that I have work tomorrow morning and he doesn’t want me to be late or miss work. He doesn’t want me to stay. I agreed, saying that he was right. I was taking the subway anyway, and the subway does not run all night here. It’s late now, almost midnight, so I am approaching the end of the subway service hours.

We got dressed and he sat on the couch to check his laptop. As I got my socks and boots on, I told him again that I had a good time tonight. I said that I hoped to see him again. He smiled, saying that he also had fun. I walked up to him, and instead of kissing him, I felt compelled to place my head in his chest one last time. He gave me what I wanted and wrapped his arms around me again, kissing me on the forehead. I looked up and kissed him goodbye.

In the days after our date, I texted him but received few texts in return.

Hi, hello.

What do you like to do for fun?

What’s your family like?

We talked for a few days, and he seemed to be interested.

But... We text, we talk.

We text again.

And eventually, we ran out of things to say.

We texted each other less often, and eventually, things just stopped.

and it is almost as if we’d never met.

Now, it is as if we'd never met.