[ Issue #2 ]

[ Blue Adams ] 

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“First Date”
 

     I take my keys out of the ignition. My hands know the routine. They know the stubborn

sticker that clings to the surface of the key, and they know how it withers still every day. Every hour. Minute. Second. The assortment of keys and dangly nothings slither so comfortably in my palm. I tell my fingers to move and they dance. The silly nothings roll around just like I want them to. They slip through the cracks between the devious little acrobats I’ve employed for fingers. The sickening drop is a familiar one. I wanted it.

     You wave to me, but not like I want you to. Though, I do want you to, wave to me, that is. I mean, it isn’t on my bucket list or anything, but it’s nice. I don’t know how nice a wave can be, but coming from a stranger I met on the internet, it feels a certain uncertain degree of nice. Normally, I’d have a much better answer. Normally, I walk across campus waving to friends, all of which have discernable waves with discernable meanings I know well. And under completely normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be parked in the driveway of a stranger’s house.

     Aside from providing such an [unsatisfying?] wave, you don’t seem to have any I-am-a-stranger-from-the-internet-trying-to-kill-you-I-am-not-nice qualities. Throughout a 14 day free-trial period of exchanging “how’s your day been” texts and music recommendations, you’ve managed to appear perfectly nice. Though, as easy as those messages were to respond to, the wave of your hand is proving to be much more difficult. And, not to say murder and perfectly unsatisfying manners are mutually exclusive, but I’m sure a murderer would have a much more satisfying wave. Instead, a probably-not-murderer waves at me. That is to say, a pansexual non-binary person (she/they pronouns!) who likes horror movies, climbing rocks, and speaking french waves to a pansexual non-binary person (they/them pronouns!) who likes anime, making bracelets, and creative writing. Of course, this is all assuming one can rely on a Tinder profile and snapchat conversations to determine such things, but I seem to not know much about anything anymore.

     Well, when I think about it, I guess it really is nice (the wave, not the all-consuming desire to know everything I possibly can, and especially the things I can’t). Maybe your hand carves into the air following the same uneven pattern of your favorite character from your favorite horror movie. Maybe you wave your hand as you do simply because you like the way the wind floats across your palm when you sway it fast enough and stretch your fingers far enough. I bet your acrobats enjoy that. I bet they obey you too, though it feels a bit like cheating when you only let your hands rest on what you know they can hold. Maybe that’s why you and your acrobats like rock climbing. Maybe after you make it to the top of a climb, you feel satisfied. Or maybe your wave is the result of nights spent in front of a mirror learning how to turn your wrist at just the right angle to hide the scars, the blood, or The Glue. Maybe you know how my heart leaps with pointed toes when your hand introduces itself to mine.

     But I don't care for any of that.

     I suppose what I really wanted was to see you break your wrist or something. Maybe even tear the whole hand off while we’re at it. Send those little acrobat bastards flying. I wanted you to tell me that it’s no big deal. This has all happened before. Your wrist is just a bit off. Sticky. The silly thing just doesn't like to sit right, and it’s all “good.” The stinging that you feel is just that bitchy family friend who visits at the worst times. Tell me her name is “Susan.” Tell me all about how when she speaks, her spit leaps miles too far and plops so hideously onto your tongue. It makes your throat sore the next day, doesn't it? You try drinking and puking and crying and swallowing, but when you speak, you know your words drip with the remains of that god-awful peanut butter shake Susan drank last Thursday.

     I want t     o reach into my own brain and find your memories lying there- memories that explain it all. Maybe you punch too hard, maybe you fall too often, or maybe you hold things too tightly. Maybe I’m looking at what I’ve denied my pupils the terror of ever since I knew. That is, the possibility that after years of denial, your hand has finally accepted that you’ll never do anything worthy enough with it anyway. But I know that’s silly. Because you’re waving at me. And that has to mean something.

     You’re waving at me. Right here. Right now. I’m breathing the stale air of leftover McDonald’s and one of those smelly tree things. And you’re waving at me. Waiting for me. Waiting for me to finally get out of my car– get out of my head. You make it so difficult though. With that silly little wave of yours. What am I supposed to do with that? Grabbing my keys wasn’t enough. And so, I stretch my little acrobats. They are pleased to be stretched, pleased to be reminding the door handle of their expertise, and even more so to be learning the nooks and crannies of a new stage, fit for new tricks. I close my eyes in preparation for the act.

     Your day was “good.”
     My day was “good.”
     And I’m standing in your kitchen.
     I’m standing here next to you asking all the wrong questions, and it’s no big deal. I set

the directions aside, and when I ask if you have a measuring cup, you show me a cube. It’s cute, and yellow, and covered in these precise little tick marks and indentions. You tell me you hate it. I can’t look away.

     You let me watch as you crack the egg. As you tell me you’re allergic. As you split the shell into two perfectly uneven halves without leaving a trace of yolk on your hands. You wash your hands anyway. Maybe it’s the allergy. Maybe it’s a habit of washing away what hides under your nails and hiding what refuses to be washed away. But you let me look.

      There’s no blood hiding under your nails. At least none that I can see from here. No mess to clean and no story to steal of how it feels to scratch, and bite, and claw your way through another. I guess this is where I should appreciate your apparent lack of murderous tendencies and appreciate even more this opportunity to get to know you, but why the fuck are your hands so bare? And yet your palms bear no scrapes or blisters, no signs of grabbing those steady rocks I know you let your acrobats conquer every other day. But, I will not let them mock me, when the rocks I reach for do not exist. My eyes are getting dry.

     “You don't have to wash the dishes.”

     “I don't mind.”
     “...”
     “It’s okay to use this sponge, right?”

     “Yeah.”

     You stand a bit behind me as I scrub the measuring cup. It’s obvious you aren’t sure of what to do. The scrubbing provides an awkward accompaniment to an awkward resting of voices, and, for the first time, I realize you're watching me too. My back burns in its knowing. I turn on the sink and let the constant flow of water wash over the flames. I know how to wash dishes. I let myself blink. And I let myself breathe. I reach for the next dish, but the sink is empty now. Turn off the      water.

     We eat the brownies we made, and they taste good enough. I’m careful not to spill any crumbs. I don’t want a mess. But my stomach hurts, and your hand is so open.

     You’re starting to notice by now, aren’t you? How I’m always grasping for what cannot be held.

And still, you’re here right now.

     You let me hold your hand.

     I grab my keys.

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