The Way Things Are

(Originally published June 26, 2005.)

Our second date was a day in Georgetown. I had never been, but you had.

We shopped. We went to the mall. You didn’t take me to the sex shops because you didn’t yet know what kind of girl I was.

The day confused me. I couldn’t figure out if it was a date, or if you had invited me as just friends.

On the way down I offered you the center of my tootsie pop. I thought the innuedo had been lost on you.

We went to the bookstore and bought some Kerouac. I hadn’t yet read On The Road.

Do you remember the crazy lady that was there, reading aloud from the cliff’s notes? I thought she might be taping herself, but she seemed to be pulling out random books. Walking in circles, reading, reading. For half an hour we watched her, pretending to pick out books.

You were shy. I was wondering all day if you were ever going to take my hand. You didn’t.

I tried to be my usual cavalier self, but it still bothered me, still twisted up my insides, which was new to me. You were beautiful. Sometimes I wanted to touch you so bad I felt like I couldn’t breathe. But I didn’t know what you wanted with me.

In the evening we ate at a Mexican place. I was worried you’d think me weird if I asked for a take home box.

We went back to your place. Your mother was there, trying to sleep. I kept forgetting and being loud. I’m still surprised she likes me.

I used to laugh so much.

I kept the cat toy I started playing with, the little clear ball with spinning shapes in the middle. I used it as a prop to start horsing around, an excuse to wrestle and feel you against me.

It perished in the fire with all our good memories.

I tried my best to make you see I wanted you. But I was nervous, for once in my life. Because I liked you. I hadn’t ever liked any of the others. It was easier with them. With you, I couldn’t make the first move, like I had before. I couldn’t bring myself to touch you, to kiss you. Because I liked you. And I didn’t know if you liked me.

When we left, it was dark and cold. January. We sat in your blue car in the parking lot and talked. I thought that was it. We had been together for twelve hours and nothing had happened. We were just friends.

But then you leaned over and kissed me. Loose, and spitty, inexperienced. But it was wonderful. Perfect full lips, hot and nervous.

You pulled away and I said, trying to be confident and casual, sexy, “I was wondering when you were gonna do that.”

You kissed me again and moved your hand up to my breast, your fingertips ice cold. You made me tingle.

When I was young, I was shy. I used to force myself to look people right in the eye. With you my gaze was averted, unsure.

You drove me home, so late. From that moment on you had my heart.

Isn’t it funny, the way things are?

Isn’t it strange how we’ve come back around, the sour side of what was once sweet? Isn’t it strange that I can sit here, my gaze averted, my thoughts hidden, nervous, afraid of what you might think? Again my confidence has gone. Trying so hard to seem casual and cool.

And again, I am breathless.

I find myself thinking, aching, wondering when you’re going to hold my hand. When will you kiss me? Are we here as just friends?

And I can’t seem to make any move. Because I like you.

And I don’t know if you like me.