What Happens When You Connect With Your Missed Connection

I know it’s meant to be a compliment but he’s phrased it all wrong. This is like some kind of caricature, like the shitty comedic dialogue off a primetime TV show about the relationship between a socialite and some fool from the sticks. I loathe the fact I’m thinking mean things about someone while they’re saying nice things about me. My inner monologue is dominated by taunting him until I force myself to re-route, to focus on how much darker his skin is than mine. His forearms are olive — a farmer’s tan accrued over who knows how many years. I ponder this, comparing his skin-tone to mine. My arm looks small and ghost-like next to his and I wonder how much lighter he would be once winter comes; if I’d still be paler by comparison. The thought is idle, but only serves to drag me back to the realization he won’t be around long enough for me to find out.

I don’t want to spend the night but do, leaving before he’s awake in the morning to go wash the shame off in the silence of my own bathroom. But wallowing in self-doubt about my sexual integrity while showering didn’t make me feel any better — which was why I went over to my friend Jay’s the next night. He invited me over with the intention of hashing out our romantic maladies, literally.

I took a long rip off the mini-bong Jay handed me and exhaled slowly, trying to stave off the inevitable coughing fit I could feel was about to follow. His fan is whirring at high speed, pushing the smoke up toward the loft ceiling instead of out the window like it should. I lay back on his platform bed and look up at pipe running the length of the room against the white ceiling.

“It’s not that I don’t like him. I just don’t mind him. “

“Oh yeah?” I hear the water bubble as he takes a hit and I wait for him to exhale, cough and take a drink of water before I continue. “He’s just so nice I’ve wound up feeling apathetic about the whole thing.”

“Yeah. I’ve met you.”