What the what?

I couldn’t put my finger on what I wanted to say when I asked her to meet me, but I needed to see her.  I assumed as in most things, my thoughts would solidify with the pressure of time and procrastination. I did kind of practice what I wanted to say, reciting the talking points in my head: friendship, blah blah, don’t want to ruin anything, blah blah, incredibly attractive, blah blah, desire, blah. But mostly there was just the brief thought of a conversation, followed by images of what I really wanted: passionate kisses, hands on bodies, and warm, wet access to her secret parts. 

Although I had asked her the day before to meet me, to which she agreed, an hour before we were scheduled  to meet we had a sting of confusing and frustrating text messages back and forth.  The texting was so … fucked … that I told her I would be at the coffee shop taking care of some work if she wanted to stop by. Complete pretense, but whatever. She eventually arrived 40 minutes late, a few mins before closing, and somewhat high on narcotics from a recent back injury.  While I sat sipping my black, hot coffee, she turned up at the table with a drink that was some sticky-sweet pink liquid and a few strawberry slices. 

After a few minutes of idle chatter and a full recitation of her back injury. I took a breath and tried to get to the real reason we were there.  Despite my mental preparation, all forms of articulate dialogue left my head.  What actually came out was “So, are we good?”

“Yeah!” She said with exaggerated enthusiasm and slapped me a ringing high five.

What the actual fuck?

I knew she had difficulty engaging in mature, adult conversations about relationships. I knew this from conversations we had about her relationships with other people while she was in them. I had previously counseled her to try expressing to them what she was saying to me. But as far as I can tell, she never did.

And so I sat there trying to figure out how I could steer this conversation away from exuberant high fives, into something more appropriate.

“What I mean is, I realize we were both in a compromised position, but from my perspective I had a really good time. I’m just wondering what you thought about it.”

“I’m not mad about it,” she said taking a drag from her socially acceptable kool aid.

Again, what the actual fuck?

I could feel my brow furrow. I looked down and fidgeted with some of my work, still spread out in front of me. She laughed and asked what was wrong. I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t find my way through her  obscurity, or her laugh.  I can accept that maybe I had a better time than she, that maybe she had regrets due to timing or location or intoxication. I can accept that maybe she’s disappointed in herself for breaking some unstated rule or in me because of my performance.  But I cannot accept what I am not allowed to know. 

We left the coffee shop a few minutes later and wandered down the street to an all-night diner. And while I did my best to shake off the disappointment and confusion I couldn’t entirely.  We joked, we laughed, we judged the other people, and speculated on whether the golden bubble perched on top of the waitress’s head was a bath pouf or a amazing bundle of highly teased and hair-sprayed hair. But the magic of possibilities had drained from the night and mostly I was going through the motions. 

As we sat there, waiting for food, she often picked up her phone for one reason or another. I was annoyed. While I stared at her, waiting for her to finish and turn her attention back to me, there was a moment as she stared down at the screen, when her eyes looked half closed and downcast, face resting, that my breath caught.  I could have sat content in that moment for a while. Finally she found the disgusting video or inappropriate meme she was searching for, and the moment was over.

She had steak tips and potatoes and devoured the entire plate. I had blueberry hot cakes. I picked the blueberries out of the pancakes and left much of the latter otherwise untouched.  In the parking lot as we stood between our respective cars, she hugged me more times than necessary.  I was tired. Physically tired from a long day and emotionally tired from alternatively trying to figure out her mixed signals and pretending like I enjoyed the ambiguity. 

We got into our cars. She pulled away without hesitation or a glance back.

I sat there for a while, trying to figure out what any of it meant, what she might have told me about the evening if it had been out with someone else, and what kind of jokes she might make about it to someone else, as she liked to do. None of it made me feel better.