[ardentfemme]

The restaurant is packed and we don’t have a reservation, so we wait and talk about our lives. I learn that Jay’s an architect, which stemmed from their love of drawing. They met Gon during a brief stint in art school years ago and struck up a friendship, although I suspect it was something more. I reveal very little about my life, not so much to create an air of mystery as to bury my emotions about my breakup with AJ. The wound is still too fresh to pick at.

Finally, a young woman in a slinky black dress leads us to a secluded table in the back of the restaurant. I relinquish my jacket and settle in next to Jay. After a bottle of wine is summoned, I feel looser, more present in my body. Entrées are ordered, glasses refilled. My eagerness permeates the air, stifling me, as I pretend to contemplate the stuffed squash on my plate.

Jay’s fork twirls a wayward spaghetti noodle distractedly. “Are you seeing anyone right now?”

I can’t help but chortle. “No. I…” If I open up and Jay doesn’t, my vulnerability will have been wasted and any control of the situation I had would go down the drain. “I just broke up with someone, actually.” I opt for honesty. “Found her elbow-deep in my best friend, believe it or not. Sounds like the beginning of a stupid lesbian rom-com, doesn’t it?” I wince.

Jay puts down their fork. Their eyes meet mine. “No. It doesn’t. They don’t make rom-coms for dykes. We always get killed or commit suicide in some dramatic bio-pic.” The words come out gently, and I know the joke is intended to console me.

“Well, I guess life really was rough back in the day. It’s not like they could just show Sylvia Plath getting eaten out for two hours.” I laugh despite myself. “She had a tough life.”

I’m rewarded for my risky cinematic commentary with a bright flash of Jay’s grin.

“So, what about you?” I return Jay’s original question as our empty plates are whisked away.

Jay mock-ruminates. “Well, they found some journals of Plath’s that make her come across real anti-Semitic. Makes me like her poetry less. But if you ever decide to make that movie, I’d watch it.”

“No, I mean, are you seeing anyone?”

Jay’s smile disappears. “Caught my ex sending nudes to her coworker. Some dude named Mike. Who the fuck is actually named Mike these days?”

Rays of candlelight refract through Jay’s wine glass into their irises. Pain is reflected back. Something primal unfolds inside me. I want to take away their hurt, but I don’t know how. So, I say, “Only assholes are named Mike. Guys with tiny dicks and codependency issues. Trust me.”

After the check comes, we dither as the wine courses through our bloodstreams, drawing our bodies closer. Jay’s hand is almost touching my thigh, deliciously warm. As they help me with my coat, their hands brush up against my shoulders. A shockwave reverberates throughout my body, the precursor of many to follow.