My date with Sam. Until I actually meet her it is like I am seeing a boy, a boy with a happy heart shaped face and a boy with Summer in his eyes.

I meet her at the zoo. For the first time I notice she has a tiny tattoo of a balloon on her ankle. The loud stripes on her sneakers yell at me. She tells me about her life as we regard elephants with awe.

“My parents are divorced,” She says rather cheerfully as she peers at the frenetic meerkats “I go to art school. Want to paint on skateboards,”

I’ve always wondered what to say when people divulge information like this to you. Do they do it because they want to share, or because they want to hear about you?

I say “Okay,”

She looks at me sideways and raises her eyebrows at me, amused. Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. Apparently she thinks I’m likable, because she winks at me when she reaches up to brush a speck of dirt off my collar. She is sweet, and she smiles like a slice of some white crispy fruit.

I’ve seen this before. She thinks I’m charming, but by next week she’ll resent me. Call me a spineless fuck up; avoid eye contact for as long as she can. Either that or she’ll be sad and puzzled, wondering why I have no real interest in kissing or touching her, why I’ve never thought about her all postured and prone. For some reason I can’t help feeling a little miserable at this. Sam is, undoubtedly, cool.

Sorry Sam. It’s not you, it’s your body. That seems so damn shallow of me.

I want to ask her lots of things. How did she become such a tomboy? How did she become so good at skateboarding? What music does she like? I have the idiotic urge to ask So, I’m wondering when you’ll realize I’m actually gay and ashamed of my sexuality, and I’m wondering when you’ll hate me.

Sam the candy girlthing. She does not act like a typical first date girl. She is more interested in the animals than me. I’m thankful. She only touches me when we leave. Because she is so much shorter than me I have to lean in close when she speaks softly. There is the near obligatory awkwardness when I do, like she expects me to kiss her, but she doesn’t want to because it’s always impolite to kiss someone on the mouth on a first date. I don’t.

She looks at her watch and she has to leave. “Roland, listen, sorry, hurry, I’m late I’m late I’m late! Mock interviews, folios and all that. You know, you know. Roland! Loved the big cats!”

Swiftly, and without thought, she pecks my cheek and flashes me her small white teeth. I want to say Wait, Sam, when can I see you again? But before I do, as she kicks off her skateboard, she calls “I’ll ring you. It was fun!”

She leaves like a song, and it rings in my head, all empty and stuffed with knowledge that I probably don’t need but I like having, anyway.

I walk aimlessly around the zoo entrance. I have nothing to do. I’m on schedule with coursework and I don’t have work until tomorrow afternoon. I hate having nothing to do. Makes me feel idle, like I have no goals.

I’m not sure if I even do.

A kid, walking past me, drops his ice cream. It makes a blue vomit mess on the pavement. The cone looks like a wound. He looks up at me briefly before roaring like a monster truck, stomp, stomp, stomping his feet. His Mum looks devastated and tired. It looks like her hair is full of ash. I feel sorry for her.

I know we were all at that age once, but I can’t help but to hate kids. Freud stated that children lack the intellectual ability to think from other peoples points of view, to grasp abstract concepts. Ask them what would happen if people could fly and they’ll say, But people can’t fly. Boring. Make you feel embarrassed for ever having children. I helped create that? Like a horror movie, the sociopath Alex De Large comes in lots of cuter alternatives, and they’re never how you planned or wanted. Whining, loud snot-blowing machines that take your money and fuck off as soon as they can so they can disappoint you as much as they need to. That adorable little bundle of delight soon turns into everything you never wanted. It will grow up and its parents will be mortified, sighing inwardly every time they look at their own spawn, watching in repulsion as it goes through puberty contradicting every one of their own personal beliefs, no matter how illogical they may be. I cannot believe that thing is made up of parts of me…

Yeah. You know.

I walk aimlessly around the zoo entrance. I am like an animal trapped in a cage, except I’m not being fed for free and I’m scared and no one stares at me and I don’t have to use the bathroom in public. It must be shitty to be an animal in captivity, and I just helped the cause along.

I get to my apartment, and all I can do is watch paint peel, think about Sam. I make strong black face twisting lemon bitter coffee and imagine what it would be like if there was a boy living in my sad state of an apartment. I imagine what it would be like if I could wake up every morning, see marks on his neck and shoulders and other intimate beautiful places and, with content, know that I made them.
I think, It’ll only ever be a figment of my imagination. This non-existent quietly seductive boy who is mine, unabashedly.

My thoughts are bitterer and stronger than my coffee. It’s just my imagination.

AN

spot the pop culture reference! there is one super obvious one, and another more vague one.

rebellionVII is a kick ass vital beta reader

thankyou