First Date

a short story

First Date /or/ Perception of You, Reflection of Me

Micah Talley sat across from me. He kept trying to catch my eye, but I was invested in listening, only listening. He spoke of his last six years spent. I believe he intended to only speak on the last one, but I felt no need to interject, so on and on he went. His psychosis did not surprise me, but I faltered when he revealed that he left his girlfriend six weeks ago. His ego was impressive, somehow acceptable.

He told me about things and people and events which meant a great deal to him. There was to be notable significance within such telling, but as I sipped my beer, I found his heart to weigh rather light. I began to overshare, to even our ends of the table, to encourage our connection. Instead of telling him the issue of his heart I laid out mine for him to see. I could not have convinced him to develop an anchor. I didn’t care to. I recognized the time to be selfish.

Before that night, I’d always been the one leading these first dates, every time. That’s how they’d fall for me so quickly, so horridly. I would do everything. I would be interesting and funny and passionate and altogether wonderful, and these were boring young men, sad men. They would need me and my fun and my maturity and my warmth and my life.

I told them about how things freeze over when they do, the way of me, but they never understood what I meant. The time would come and they’d say I changed. Changed! A peculiar opinion and a difficult one for me to grasp, for I’d always been intimate with myself, and they were wrong. Still, despite their bitching and apathy and anger, I would find patience and wait it out. I became adept at that. I had to learn that patience, then I taught it to myself. I knew when to leave—and I warned them. People don’t really listen.

Then I looked up and there was Micah, talking and smiling and prodding and teasing and leading. I leaned back and let him have it all. It would be whatever he wanted. I was sure of that. Finally, finally I was on the other side; and he was beautiful.

We extended the evening at his place. It was clean and I was tipsy. He smoked while I listened to what he queued. I was acting spontaneously, something I hadn’t done in a while. Convincing myself that I wouldn’t be late for work the next morning was a simple task when he kept admiring me, kept calling me pretty. I knew I was a fool, but please, I needed to exist.

I told him that I had insecurities. I’m not sure what prompted the confession, I can’t remember. He looked at me and he said “No,” so softly, so genuinely, and I was convinced. A man has that power, and it’s a pleasing thing when they know it.

I touched his face when we kissed. He leaned into my hand, into a stranger’s caress, and that broke my heart. I was well versed in no expectations, but I also understood the need for devotion; those displays and feelings and something rising that might have felt like small love. I knew then what we would be. I didn’t mind. I was in a good place, and from that one reaction, that subliminal thing, I knew he needed it.

He was a man, a creature of flesh and blood. A man with a heart too light, whereas my own had plenty of expendable weight. I could spare some of mine for his lack thereof, and maybe then he could be able to anchor himself for the next storm.