Awkward Things I Say To Girls


IT ALWAYS SEEMED LIKE THE RIGHT THING TO SAY AT THE TIME

Friends share beds all the time as, like, just friends. That’s not weird. (a prologue)

It’s Not a Date:
In Love With My Best Friend

Prologue

I woke up in the morning with my arm around her. The sun was streaming in the window the same way that they play light adult contemporary music in dentists’ offices. It’s not going away, and it’s not the worst thing that’s happening to you, so you just pretty much have to deal with it.

She woke up and stretched, then got up sleepily.

“How did you sleep?” she yawned at me.

“I slept better after you grabbed my crotch in the night.”

“I did? What a good dream that was.” She got up and started reaching for bathroom things.

“It would have been better, but I fended you off.”

“Pity.” She left, showered, returned, and dressed. “Look, I am going out tonight with my boyfriend, so I won’t be around.”

“Okay. Tell him I say hi.”

“And then I’m moving into my new apartment tomorrow. It’s so nice of you to let me stay here this week. Have a good day!”

And in a puff of green tea and cucumber smelling girliness, she vanished off to work.

I rolled over to look out the window, and quietly wished against hope that someday, she’d be my girl.

“She’s totally in love with you. Can’t you hear it in her voice?”

“That girl is bad news, buddy.”

“She’s so perfect for you! She’s exactly what you need.”

“She did what? Okay, she gets a new nickname. What’s a good word? Oh, I know: Succubus.”

Those are the sorts of things my friends said to me about my best friend in the last two years of college. I only heard the good ones. From the summer of 2002 to early June, 2005, I knew that someday, somehow, we’d be together. It was meant to be. Destiny, you could call it.

You could call if that if you want to throw up.

Look, you: if you tell stories to your friends about a girl you’re friends with, and they start pleading with you never to see her again because she’s eating your soul, it is not destiny. It is a sign that, maybe, you should check your soul for bite-marks.

Or, you know, whatever. Ignore your friends. They never cared about you anyway. Allow your soul to be eaten. It feels warm, and, if anything, tickles a little.

In August of 2001 we met, and in the summer of 2002 we became friends. In late May of 2003 she lived with me for a week. In June of 2004 I made her cry, and then in June of 2005 the whole thing built to a final conclusion that is as improbable as it was inevitable and necessary.

But none of it was a date.

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