What Happens When You Connect With Your Missed Connection

Is he fucking for real right now? I sneer. The expression feels ugly. True to pretty-twenty-something form, I look at the mirror opposite from my bed and decide this facial expression should not be repeated in the company of others. I remind myself that a drunken sex-text is one thing, but the ‘maybe’ followed by a question mark was what really got to me — it was weak.

I don’t know how to ask if that was some kind of veiled booty call without sounding accusatory. My aggressive tone shines through. But it’s late, and Dick is undeterred.

It’s not booty call. U know how I feel bout u.

The fact someone has already caught feelings is news to me, a red flag that it’s all downhill from here. I regret responding and try to backpedal: I’m home, not gussied up anymore.

Gussied up? He replies. Is this a real thing I have to explain? After I spell it out for him, he responds again. You’re a beauty without any hussy.

Two more messages pop up while I stare at the screen, half in shock. Uh… gussy. Meet me at my place?

This string of texts does not bolster my confidence that anything we do will be satisfying; that anything he says once I get to his place won’t make me wish I’d just stayed home. “This is such a bad idea,” reiterates the little voice in my head. Well, that almost made you look REAL bad. Are you drunk?

Gettin there. He says.

I know bullshit when I read it, just like I know better than to encourage ‘this.’ I’ve spent just enough time alone in my bed over the summer wishing I was emotionally attached — or at least pretending to be — to know that inferior companionship is better than none at all.

Try not to be wasted, I reply, though I know it’s too late to be making that kind of request.

I won’t. And then, after another hour: Heading your way — you up?

Though I haven’t even attempted to fall asleep, this game isn’t fun anymore. I don’t respond and give myself over to the mild drifting sensation that immediately precedes sleep.

A final text from the night before is waiting for me when I wake up: This sucks I thought I was gonna get to c u. It’s early, too early to be writing him back, but I do because I’m feeling a little vicious after our late night conversation, even though I know my responses did nothing but egg him on. Getting booty-called is not really what I’m mad about. It’s that I don’t want to have sex that I have to try to talk myself into. If he had been better, this would be different.

Sorry — fell asleep! Let me know if you’re around today.

Aside from being bored and lonely and wanting someone to tell me I’m pretty, I don’t know what my motives are behind acting like I want to hang out again when subconsciously I know I don’t. I putter around my apartment as morning fades into afternoon, just like my desire to leave my apartment as I watch the humidity and temperature rise on my weather widget.

I’m up. What’re you doing? Wanna get food?

It’s amazing how easily I can be roped into spending time with some whose company I don’t enjoy with the offer of a free meal. Sure, where were you thinking? I reply.

He doesn’t need to know that although I’m hungry, I’ll be figuring out how to eat the least caloric meal possible wherever we go. We are not in a relationship, and if there’s one thing I can’t afford it’s to let myself go.

Northeast Kingdom has brunch… it’s a little fancy.

I Google the place as I get dressed; spending too much time looking through my closet before picking out a gauzy white dress.