She was petite. So small that damn near all her lovers picked her up and took her for a twirl in the air. No doubt some Oedipus shit at play.
She had a tick where she scrunched her face like a chipmunk to accentuate a point. It was hard not to smile at that.
“I’m a clinical psychologist in training”. She even dressed like it. Dark neutral colors to keep the anorexic or bestiality-practicing freaks from latching on to her quirks. Psych. What a dangerous field. She seemed slightly neurotic herself. Don’t we go into a profession to give ourselves something we never had? Bullied children become teachers. Anxious kids grow into therapists. Makes sense to me.
She was overdressed for The Irish Snug. She knew it. Her uncomfortably austere seating position on the barstool revealed she felt the faux-pas but she owned it. It was a good look. A soft rose cashmere sweater with a deep v neck. Sleek black pants with a bow the size of her head and entirely too intricate for an Irish pub on this side of Colfax. She loved rose gold. She paused to give me a 10 minute diatribe on the psychology of the color. These type of people are constantly seeking a reason to justify their PhDs.
It only took 16 minutes for the classic moment. That moment in a date which proves all these apps do is increase our likelihood of venturing across racial spaces. They do nothing for that old thing rearing its ugly head again.
I led. “How many are you on?”
“Tinder & OKC. You?”
“All of them. Dating apps are like fishing with dynamite. I leave nothing to chance.”
Her pursed lips flattened into a wide grin. With a cocksure attitude, she said “I remember your profile. Didn’t you make a joke about being a really really BIG…pianist?”
“No I definitely didn’t. That’s just your subconscious at play, Ms. Clinical Psychology.”
“Are you sure? I swear you were talking about your…”
“Piano.”
“Oh…well…what do you do for work again?”
“Oh I don’t work. I just carry a big black dick around. I just swing it to and fro. You know? It sho ain’t easy!”
———
It’s in these minute interactions that we find our truths. Her eyes fluttering to mask the rising anxiety behind her Freudian slip. That post-racial nonsense revealing its repressed sexual urges. Is that modern romance? Or just a clueless white girl from Philly looking for a good bone on Bumble?
She laughed and quickly changed the subject. Dating is like playing chess but if you want great sex, the other has to win or at least think they’re winning.
“Your title said Director of... I felt way too pathetic. Ugh.”
“Yeah? Tell me more about that…”
“I mean I graduate in two years with my PhD. That’s something…?”
She didn’t say it definitely but rather with a trace of insecurity. The hallmark signature of the yet to be secure twenty something and thirty something. Still seeking approval, recognition and applause for simply breathing. It was the wrong time. Wrong man. Wrong bar.
The dating chess match continued.
“I’m not white. I mean I’m white but I never felt like it. My mother is as white as they come but my dad is Italian. My mom said they used to make the Italians stay over the summer to clean the school.”
“What? Why?!” I knew Italians were the niggers of the early 1900s but I pretended to be surprised.
“Because they weren’t white. I grew up in Philly but I’m more of a mutt. We’re Greek, Italian and French. The coast of Italy we’re from has lots of Arab influences which explains my dark skin.”
“If your skin is dark then I’m fucking charcoal.”
Mind you, this girl wasn’t white as snow but she wasn’t tan either. Some middle tone of whiteness which accentuated her dark facial features and hair. Ever meet those Italian folks who look Mexican?
———
The night ended. She lingered. Practically begged me to walk her to her car. In this new age I don’t know what is chivalrous and what isn’t. At first I resisted but I wanted to kiss her. I wanted something new. Craving a bit of an explosion. She leaned forward. Each of her drunken movements were exaggerated to suggest “hey you, yes you. You’re two steps from checkmate. I’m all yours for the taking if you wish”.
She cancelled her Lyft and asked me to drive her home. The pitter patter of the rain drops crackled against every uneven disturbed edge of the crumbling sidewalk. Not enough of a drizzle to quench the Rocky Mountains but enough to get that sweet after-rain smell we have all fallen in love with at some point.
She was on a mission. I think she had decided how this night would end before it began. In my heart of hearts, I wanted to head home, fall asleep next to my girlfriend and pretend we were still in love.
———
The building was ancient. Full of condos for the elderly. Some retired. Some simply rejected by the individualist children they raised. I don’t know how she got in. I remember an elevator. The torn and worn out wallpaper screamed 70s. I swear the elevator was faded orange but nostalgia tends to corrupt memory.
“It’s a thin line between fiction and reality.” I loved to drop that line and pretend it wasn’t in the slightest bit poetic.
They always bit. “What do you mean? Ugh you’re such a fucking writer. Are you always doom and gloom Missster?”
She accentuated the Mister and drew out the sss like one of those 20s harlots with a lisp. Pure overacting.
“Always. And you love it.” Our smiles quickly turned cheeky. Like two kids watching themselves steal from one another’s cookie jar. Her apartment was fifteen steps from the elevator. I slid my arm beneath her smock and nested it right above her tailbone. I drew a few breaths from her mouth. Just enough to wet her lips as I lightly pushed her body against the front door. Enough force to slightly hurt, maybe even bruise a bit. Something to help her remember in the morning but not enough to signal any 50 shades tendencies.
Can’t you picture the sex already? You know at some point she’d ask to choke me or some shit.
The hand behind her back unlocked the door, and it was impossible to not pick up the unique odor of incense mixed with fresh cat litter. The tour was quick. Immediately sobering. Some things in life you just can’t force. A 1 bedroom 1 Bathroom apartment meant as a last stop for some elder on their way out. The décor was fitting. Hell, it was all fitting. A free advertisement for Target’s dorm selections. Unoriginal decals trying desperately to be original. The usual quotes about living, loving, laughing, and dancing like no one is watching. Most of us only dance in public under the influence of THC or shrooms but let’s digress. Her personal art adorned a few of the walls. She saw the world in odd collages of neon mosaics and animal print. It was hideous…but fitting.
“I want to wake up with you.”
With one simple phrase, he saw her for what she was.
Lonely. Insecure. Culturally voyeuristic. The usual.
———
It ended abruptly. Not more than two days after it began. In a perfectly modern way. The text messages read:
“Hey Misster, when do I get to see you again? How about Wednesday evening? We need to finish what we started. ;)”
“Umm, that could work. How about 8?”
“Mmm, can you do 6 instead?”
“No can do. I have a date with someone then.”
“What?!”
“I’m not that interested in her but gotta check it out ya know?”
“Okay, goodbye.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I have too much self-respect to go out with someone who can’t commit. You were going to tack me on to some other date night? Fuck you. Good bye. I hope you learn some fucking manners. You’re a real piece of shit.”
“Wow. That escalated quickly. Let me know if you change your mind.”