My Last Hinge Date

You’re either boring or entirely wrong for me and I’ll love you. I’ll love you.

We sat in my tiny Chevy, the kind that doesn’t even have power locks for the doors; I always unlock your door first; that way you don’t have to get wet in the rain. And it’s still raining, been going all day. Each droplet pitter-patters on my windshield as my clock crawls to 7:00. Sad indie-girl music wafted through the speakers. I’d replaced my windshield wipers the day before.

“What’s wrong—you look like something is up?” her hazel eyes at me, pouring.

Shit. Found out. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You can’t get to 33 and fall in love on the second date. I’m supposed to be mature; supposed to know the rules of this game. This is stupid. This is fake. I know I’m only in love with the idea of her; I know I don’t really know her yet.

But

I’ve been alone for so long and never slaked this thirst. I’m ready. Please. I want to drink. Years of night. Years. And on the first date I fell into your gaze, the brilliant boring of your eyes. We walked along and I held your hand. The smallness of it. I thought about how many men had shot up malls, robbed banks, found the last good vein for junk entry, yelled at neighbors, castrated themselves on the internet because they forgot the softness of someone’s hand.

And

You told me you’d never held hands on a date. I guess I never fell in love. Not like this. Your lips tasted like sweetest water.

And now, you’re finally here. And suddenly, all the yearnings bubbling up. Baby turtles on the sand. Desperate. Hunted. Baby turtles looking for loving waves to carry them. 

I babbled. Stumbled. We sat parked at the end of the block, blocking a driveway as cars drifted by. You told me it’s ok.

Her hazel eyes at me: “Do you always fall in love this easily?”

“I don’t know,” I glanced over with my rumpled face, “I only love the women I love.” She put her hand on mine again.

Falling in love with a therapist is difficult; you can’t tell if they care because they see the hurt in your eyes or if they truly love you. Neither? Both? I stared down at the rain falling down my windshield. Streaks of night and annoying LED headlamps.

“I feel like a frisbee that’s been thrown on the moon when I’m with you.” I said, clenching my jaw in agony at my words.

She smiled.

“You’re sweet. I just got out of a marriage. I mean. Things were over between us for a while,” she looked over to the window and back at me, “But I want to find my forever person. I want to take things slow. You’re so sweet. I want this to work.”

I kept babbling.

“Evelyn, I don’t want to possess you – I don’t want to take you out of the woods like some rare flower and put you in my apartment that doesn’t get enough light. I. I want to water you. I just want you to be ok. You talk a lot about your past. You talk a lot about how much you hurt and one time you said you wanted to die. I just want you to be happy; even if I’m not in the picture at all.

She looked at me, her face clotted in care. The music wafted, a mournful melody interspersed with chunky pop chords.

“I know I don’t know you well. I’m sorry. I feel like I’m just… going to explode. I just like you a lot. You make me feel like I’m 16 again.”

“I think so much of love is a choice. Let’s take it slow,” she said, “I should probably go up to Ronin and Bop. They need to go pee.”

We kissed. She kept her lips tight. Pursed.

I drove home and threw a plate against the wall. It thunked into the drywall, tearing a hole before plummeting to a crash. I screamed. Pounded the table and collapsed.

I’d drown in this just to abandon being right, just to hold you close in a field where bands of shy asters dapple your ankles as you pass.

Everything’s proper until it isn’t. I shouldn’t love you and this isn’t. Everything is breaking into tiny nitid shards that cut clean. Everything’s decent until it isn’t. Slumped on the couch again. Netflix in the background. Someone on Hinge liked my profile. Someone new. There was a ding, and my frozen pizza announced its completion. I sat down gingerly on the couch and began to blow on the hot slice as I wiped my eyes and blew my nose.

I swept up all the shards a few minutes later. You didn’t call me the next day.

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