When I see his hair, I think oh no he absolutely played lacrosse. It’s long and slicked back, tucked behind his ears. Sexy in a sleazy way. He’s thirty-six, nine years older than me — also sexy in a sleazy way. His job description reads: “FinTech.” (Sounds douchey…but rich.) Under that: “Liberal.” (In Missouri?!) I doubt I’m his type, but I’m moving soon anyway. In the last few days since redownloading Hinge, I’ve learned that every man who swipes on my profile either (A) likes my sluttiest photo (the bloody Amy Dunne costume from Gone Girl, the intent of which is to terrify) or, (B) asks me to explain my short answer response about ASMR. I send back the most deranged ASMR YouTube video I can find of a woman whispering softly to her pack of uncanny valley werewolf dolls.
To say I’m not taking this seriously is an understatement. I’m matching and unmatching in a frenzied turnover. The ones who make an effort in the conversation are mostly what my college friends would call the “ain’t rights.” There isn’t a clear definition to an ain’t right — rather like Justice Potter Stewart states, you’ll know it when you see it. And what you see is that they clearly ain’t right.
It’s been approximately thirty-two months since my last first date, which means I haven’t polished up my tight forty-five in ages. Somewhere in my notes app is a list of all the questions to ask a date during the dreaded lulls: “What were you like in high school?” “What’s your ideal day?” “Have you ever had a nickname?” “What’s your favorite thing about your hometown?” But the part of the date I look forward to best is the entrance.
I time it so that I’m a few minutes late. He’s already seated. It feels like walking into an audition for a role I’ve nearly booked. I pretend to not notice him too quickly, because this is my favorite part — he’s accessing me. He thinks I don’t know, but I know. I imagine how I’m being admired, and my spine straightens, a leftover memory from childhood ballet class. I want it to last a moment, just long enough so that I can believe he’s caught his breath. Mics: on. Lights: standby. On my count, curtains: go. Orchestra: go. 3 - 2 - 1. Spotlight. Then that’s when I look at him, while the music swells.
But right now, I can’t even begin to fathom stage managing a first date. These men all look incredibly Catholic (derogatory usage). Here’s what I want. I want a man who is 65% of what I’m interested in. He’s tall and flirtatious, but an aspiring business influencer. He’s got great hair, but keeps unironically repeating the word “indubitably” to sound smart. (It sounds dumb.) He touches my shoulder casually, but then spends the next fifteen minutes explaining the premise of Ted Lasso to me. And I don’t mind the Ted Lasso explanation per se, because I’m buzzed off the wine, but I don’t want to marry the guy.
I nod and laugh during the appropriate intervals, reading from the script, because why not? I’m in love with the glass of prosecco, not him. I’m in love with the effect I think I’m having on him. Afterwards, he tells me he can’t wait to “dick me down,” and I think how did you reach your ripe old age and still think “dick me down” is a sexy thing to say? When I get home, these men become a story.
I should have grabbed a cart at the entrance of Field’s Foods. Instead, I’m contorting my body to hold the P.F. Chang’s frozen beef, keto popsicles, overpriced blueberries which are not even organic, and fizzy stevia pretending to be soda. (Intuitive eating!) I pay in babysitting cash, because then I can forget that I paid for this ridiculous grocery lineup at all. It’s been at least half an hour since I checked my phone, so that is my reward for achieving this very adult task of feeding myself.
Lacrosse man has responded. Apparently he loves Interstellar. I give his profile a re-audit, deciding I judged too harshly the first time. In one picture, he plays with a toddler. Shameless pandering, but then again, it’s not as if it isn’t working. Maybe the hair doesn’t say lacrosse, maybe it says fine art collector? Generous patron? The ear-tuck is now girlish, sweet, an obvious sign of great sensitivity. He’s a feminist! The last photo is of his dog in front of an expansive pool. It’s taken from his POV with his bare feet in full view, and I think, for free?? Amateur hour. Please, put those things behind a paywall. I’m in control of myself again.
A date is set for Saturday (okay!), then canceled (I’m pissed), then rescheduled (he’s forgiven). He’s going on a last minute work trip, and I imagine him suited up in Cleveland (“the Daytona of the Rust Belt” — his words, not mine), brokering deals like he’s a guest star on Succession. I could be into that, I think. In lieu of our broken date, he texts me asking what wine I’m drinking. Kosher for Passover, leftover from the Seder our apartment hosted last week. A highly aromatic and complex Mogen David Concord. I wonder if this is working on him (it appears to be), or if I just seem young and eager to please.
He sends another picture of his dog. Where are the feet this time? I ask. Clearly the power dynamic is in his favor, but perhaps what I’ve got going for me is the insouciance of youth. I have time to spare, and maybe he doesn’t. The next text is a photo taken reclined on a couch, definitely more expensive than my own. A toe barely in frame. And while good God, let me make it abundantly clear, I’m not attracted to the foot itself, the cheekiness really does it for me. He tells me that a good personality is table stakes for him: minimum requirement to play. I ask him to bring me back a memento from the City of Light, mostly to see if he will.
The next day, I’m going on so many walks. SO MANY WALKS. I need to walk out my expectations. This is the upside of unemployment. I find myself in corners of Forest Park that I’ve never encountered before, with hidden reservoirs filled with swans and bridges shrouded by cypress trees. The problem with an active imagination is that I can envision a starring role for myself from an open call. I can see the weekend farmers market trips, the infant being rocked to sleep, the quiet nights on the balcony together so vividly that they appear tangible. It feels like summertime as a child, when the days and nights play on one hazy loop, and you wake up at odd hours unclear of the difference between a dream and a premonition.
In anticipation of the rescheduled date, I set limits for myself. I break the limits immediately. His sister looks impressive on LinkedIn, and his high school sport was soccer (not lacrosse?), and his start-up is based in the city I’m moving to, and I’m just a fling. I’m just a fling. He’s just a fling. We have not even met, and I’m self-diagnosing as possibly psychotic, no psychiatric evaluation necessary! See? It’s so cost-effective. I’m a “romantic,” doesn’t that mean the same thing?
I wish I were the sort of person who didn’t do this. I go on another walk and call my mom, who doesn’t know anything about what’s going on, but coincidentally tells me that you only really need 24-hours to tell if you could end up with someone. This is supremely unhelpful for my grip on reality, thank you. I cry in therapy an hour later. I’m moving in three months, no job, two theater degrees, a hemorrhaged savings account. Everything’s great. I relapse into prayer, please God give him the voice of Kermit the Frog. That would make everything so much easier.
My future roommates and I FaceTimed last night. We shared our vices, which is perhaps how every relationship should begin. It’s official, I’m escaping St. Louis, my goal since the day I moved here. Linguistic studies should be pursued on the semantic ties between Missouri and misery. Except, dare I say, the nostalgia is kicking in too early? I still haven’t visited the City Museum, and I’ve only walked down Cherokee Street a handful of times. The absolutely insane kombucha man is back in Tower Grove on Saturdays, and he recognizes me now. I wonder if this preoccupation with lacrosse guy, foot guy — with Jake — is like an infant clinging to the walls of the womb. My parents tell me I was a difficult birth, already upside down. It’s one thing to begin, another thing entirely when forceps are necessary. I think I’m getting better at it though.
Back to Jake lacrosse guy (I’m revoking his name). What’s so tantalizing about this fantasy is that it perfectly sets up what I want. We’re beginning with the ending, so there’s no slow growing apart or descent into resentment, because I’m already gone. I can imagine him falling in love with me, the most desirable version of me, and maybe he’ll decide that he would follow me anywhere. It happens, I’m told. But probably not. He’s here, and I’ll be there. Table stakes.
So I’m writing about the idea of him instead, to turn him into a story. Storybooks have a final page and then they close at the end. It’s a safe grief.
I really will miss the kombucha hawker in Tower Grove. The line at his stand is always too long, because he chats with everyone, and he’s definitely high. We try to guess if it’s marijuana or something stronger, but chances are we won’t find out. I suppose I’ll never get to try all of his foraged fermentations, infinite combinations of chaga root, palo santo, gooseberry. But like the potential for heartbreak, I’m certain there’s something like it in Brooklyn.
Sydney‘s writing manages to perfectly balance humor, honesty, observation and critique with such finesse! Looking forward to more
your writing is delightful