flirting with a fiancé
An 11:15 showing of Mulholland Drive sounds like a great idea when it's 10 pm and you’re three fourths done with your fist vodka cranberry. Its a much worse idea when your eyes are shutting at 12:30 and there hasn’t even been a lesbian scene yet.
On my early return to spring street, I stop at joes and wait in line for a slice. While waiting in line, I reflect on my day at coney island and my experience with lines. I think of how lucky I am to have friends who share the same values when it comes to waiting in line; it’s a rare thing to be on the same page about, it’s a rarer thing to encounter someone who also refuses to stand in a “non-vip line” for entrance to some club for 20-somethings on the lower east side but still enthusiastically partakes in the 30-minute wait for coney island’s world famous hot-dogs despite our vegetarianism.
While chewing and continuing down sixth avenue, there’s continued reflection from the past 24 hours. A house party comes back in waves, in the most disarmingly comforting way, reminiscent of simpler times. Confined to two adjacent rooms in a city apartment, conversation becomes rapidly intimate. Yet still, it took over an hour for him to mention his betrothed who was separated from us only by a thin wall, less than 10 feet away. Despite his admission, for the rest of the night, when one of us cycled into the next room, the other followed. His sleeve tattoos negated his fintech background and he complimented me in a way that makes me feel seen.
“Wait… YOU’ve never done coke?!” He questioned incredulously.
I proudly confirm my perhaps aesthetically unexpected stimulant self control, “Nope.”
Flirting with the fiancé comes with associations of high school “homewrecking”(a word I have officially and permanently assigned quotation marks to when referring to anyone under 20ish) but also signals the dawn of a new age where flirtation is no longer innocent. Attraction gets me into a lot unwanted situations, for example Uddin, the cab driver who I surrendered my phone number to in order to appease, or the 66 year old homeless man who sang to me in the park who I surrendered my phone number to in order to appease, or the Persian start up man on the F train who I surrendered my phone number to in order to appease, all of whom are now blocked. And somehow this soon-to-be married man was turned to putty within my twenty one year old hands. What do you call a cross between a guilt trip and a power trip?
After resigning my brain to the promise of bizarrely vibrant dreams that have been the norm for the past month, I woke up with renewed perspective. In transient morning clarity, I choose not to google him, but I also cancel my upcoming date with the dj who approached me in the park (thank god).
