I swiped on Nicholas because of his pompadour of blonde hair, and profile that confidently stated, “I like traveling the world, breaking hearts, and having my heart broken”.
Upon meeting him I realized I had arranged a date with a not yet self-aware gay male. His accent I had no problem placing, as I grew up in California. His clothing was peppered sweetly with masculine, yet feminine detail. The way he folded his legs, arranged himself delicately at our table, I knew I was in the wrong place with a handsome phony.
He met me for coffee because he was a lush and stopped drinking ‘a while back’. I got there early because I don’t like committing to staying longer than I need to, I can buy my own drink and be ready to mingle as son as they arrive. He got there late. Thirty minutes late. But like I said, he was handsome and he looked like he took care of himself. I’ve had an unfortunate past of dating men who don’t take care of themselves. He spoke at length about poetry and Prague, his family, the Kardashians (yes Queen, he spoke at length about his thoughts on the inner workings and philosophy behind their show) and his recent film he was writing. He had just gotten invited to a film festival for writing a short film, but he said it was too difficult to get there. I was interested; if nothing else it would make for an interesting night of conversation.
When I told my friends where he grew up, they stuck their noses up and said he was going to be a snob and a brat. I think he was probably a bit of an asshole at one point in his life, but he seemed to have realized that about himself. Life requires you to not be a selfish asshole, which is a trait you could see him working through the same way young girls, or boys, have to figure out makeup and heels. But he was putting in real work it seemed. Real work, that earns real money, that you have to make real choices with. Because foolish choices leave you broke, and unable to buy a ticket to the Cannes Film Festival for which you were invited.
We slipped casually in conversation from poetry, to politics, to our favorite things about Paris. When I could, I’d get him to speak French to me. At 29 he was still a student, something I mocked about my previous 32-year-old boyfriend for being. But Nicholas was studying at an expensive private school to which he received a scholarship, he wasn’t in the one class a week at the community college program that my previous partner was. Isn’t it funny how we can differentiate what is acceptable and isn’t when a handsome man describes it?
As a student, he offered me bright conversation and brilliant thoughts. He shared the books he was reading in detail, and some of his favorite poets. His brain hadn’t grown dull from the monotony that comes with a scheduled routine of work. He let me know on our first date that he wasn’t in school still because he was a slacker, or because he got drunk and partied too much and had to drop out. It wasn’t that he ‘couldn’t cut it’, he didn’t drop out and he wanted me to have a clear understanding of the difference. I was drinking this iced coffee with a smoky caramel flavoring listening to him brag on about his situation. I had been texting my brother miles before Nicholas arrived, I hadn’t had coffee in months and my skin felt as if it was vibrating under my breath. Anxiety-prone I knew I was more likely to bomb on this date, and when my sweet Parisian arrived I blew caution to the wind of homosexual questioning and dove deep into the sweet elixir before me. Which is why I let him know even if he had dropped out for those reasons, I wouldn’t have judged him because they would have been almost the same reasons I dropped out.
Getting kicked out, dropping out of college, taking a leave of absence, going on sabbatical, taking time to explore who I am, getting better. They all mean the same thing, that you dropped out of college. Nicholas dropped out of college because he got into a car accident, lived in cheap housing an hour from the school and was still trying to hold a full-time job while taking the bus. He became addicted to Adderall to make it work. He quit his social life and friends to make it work. And somewhere in there, a girl quit him because she could see it was all a pile of shit.
He took whatever he had left in his bank account, applied for a student visa, and booked a ticket to Prague. He found a flat with other international transplants. Found a job. Studied French. Had foreign affairs that he described as being just alright. After six months he moved to the south of France, then Egypt, and then traveled with a Romanian pickpocket to Morocco. It was the Moroccan embassy that let him know his mother had been looking for him.
During that time he visited as many museums and historical places as he could. He hitch hiked the countryside. Snuck into abandoned temples and cathedrals, where normally only robed men walk. The Romanian convinced traders to take them through the Sahara on a trade route. The stories poured out him. Quickly his tight jeans and feminine lisp melted as a young Harrison Ford emerged, fuddling his words while picking at a chopsticks that he couldn't figure out how to use.
He laughed at everything I said. Comedy is a defense mechanism for me when I feel threatened, disadvantaged, or unsure of myself. I can make people laugh, and it gives me a hope they might stick around. They’d look past my double chin, my tendency to talk over them, or my need to be right in arguments because when they’re around me they feel happy. Nicholas would laugh sincerely, and I would laugh with him, and he would tell me how much fun he was having.
We casually dated for a few weeks, and while he was from the richest area of town there was no denying that his parents pushed him out like a small bird and said fly. While I have grown accustomed for waiting and paying a higher price for the best food and experience, he was searching for speed, quantity, and price. He didn’t go out often, and he didn’t drink so I can understand why he kept quiet hobbies of reading and writing.
To my chagrin, he decided to accompany me to an art opening where I was showing three new pieces, illustrated around a night of storytelling and comedy. Three strangers stood before a crowd expressing their truth in hopes of various outcomes, proclamations of overcoming while for others the night served as a type of confession. We spoke of the evening over dinner at a French café, escargot that escorted itself around the room as its rich scent intoxicated the surrounding tables. Herbs mingling with butter, I had no shame to take more than my share, drenching my bread with the fragrant first course. For months during the prior school year, I had returned to basic cooking. Leaving my chef-inspired recipes on their pages, I had no one to cook with or for anymore. It didn’t bring me the same enjoyment. Which is why at that moment, the rich flavor against dry crust just brought me to a familiar foreign land.
I asked Nicholas if he could ever stand in front of others, and confess a truth in his life. He held his breath as he thought and released it disappointedly, eyes darting across the table still as if the answer was there somewhere. “I haven’t done anything worth sharing”, The Harrison Ford complex was slipping away and the sweet-faced boy was coming into sight. He had felt unaccomplished, behind his peers and friends, as if trekking through the Sahara had been written on too many times already.
I didn’t see him again after those three weeks. I wasn’t interested in calling, and apparently neither was he. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t value his story. Maybe, like some of the women I have met in my 30s, he had never taken the time to inventory his experiences. To give them worth and meaning, to take ownership over experiences inflicted on ourselves as well as those that are given to us without our permission. It’s not out of superiority, or egocentrism that the habit emerges. I feel it falls on the opposite hand, the inventory and appraisal of my experiences have only happened after I have felt it has all gone to shit. For me, it is only when things feel rotten, where I am forced to find the humor, joy, value, or self-reflection in the situation. I fear if the inventory and appraisal of the experience doesn’t happen, I would have wasted a perfectly good evening on a rotten memory of eating snails with my gay friend Nick.
Upon meeting him I realized I had arranged a date with a not yet self-aware gay male. His accent I had no problem placing, as I grew up in California. His clothing was peppered sweetly with masculine, yet feminine detail. The way he folded his legs, arranged himself delicately at our table, I knew I was in the wrong place with a handsome phony.
He met me for coffee because he was a lush and stopped drinking ‘a while back’. I got there early because I don’t like committing to staying longer than I need to, I can buy my own drink and be ready to mingle as son as they arrive. He got there late. Thirty minutes late. But like I said, he was handsome and he looked like he took care of himself. I’ve had an unfortunate past of dating men who don’t take care of themselves. He spoke at length about poetry and Prague, his family, the Kardashians (yes Queen, he spoke at length about his thoughts on the inner workings and philosophy behind their show) and his recent film he was writing. He had just gotten invited to a film festival for writing a short film, but he said it was too difficult to get there. I was interested; if nothing else it would make for an interesting night of conversation.
When I told my friends where he grew up, they stuck their noses up and said he was going to be a snob and a brat. I think he was probably a bit of an asshole at one point in his life, but he seemed to have realized that about himself. Life requires you to not be a selfish asshole, which is a trait you could see him working through the same way young girls, or boys, have to figure out makeup and heels. But he was putting in real work it seemed. Real work, that earns real money, that you have to make real choices with. Because foolish choices leave you broke, and unable to buy a ticket to the Cannes Film Festival for which you were invited.
We slipped casually in conversation from poetry, to politics, to our favorite things about Paris. When I could, I’d get him to speak French to me. At 29 he was still a student, something I mocked about my previous 32-year-old boyfriend for being. But Nicholas was studying at an expensive private school to which he received a scholarship, he wasn’t in the one class a week at the community college program that my previous partner was. Isn’t it funny how we can differentiate what is acceptable and isn’t when a handsome man describes it?
As a student, he offered me bright conversation and brilliant thoughts. He shared the books he was reading in detail, and some of his favorite poets. His brain hadn’t grown dull from the monotony that comes with a scheduled routine of work. He let me know on our first date that he wasn’t in school still because he was a slacker, or because he got drunk and partied too much and had to drop out. It wasn’t that he ‘couldn’t cut it’, he didn’t drop out and he wanted me to have a clear understanding of the difference. I was drinking this iced coffee with a smoky caramel flavoring listening to him brag on about his situation. I had been texting my brother miles before Nicholas arrived, I hadn’t had coffee in months and my skin felt as if it was vibrating under my breath. Anxiety-prone I knew I was more likely to bomb on this date, and when my sweet Parisian arrived I blew caution to the wind of homosexual questioning and dove deep into the sweet elixir before me. Which is why I let him know even if he had dropped out for those reasons, I wouldn’t have judged him because they would have been almost the same reasons I dropped out.
Getting kicked out, dropping out of college, taking a leave of absence, going on sabbatical, taking time to explore who I am, getting better. They all mean the same thing, that you dropped out of college. Nicholas dropped out of college because he got into a car accident, lived in cheap housing an hour from the school and was still trying to hold a full-time job while taking the bus. He became addicted to Adderall to make it work. He quit his social life and friends to make it work. And somewhere in there, a girl quit him because she could see it was all a pile of shit.
He took whatever he had left in his bank account, applied for a student visa, and booked a ticket to Prague. He found a flat with other international transplants. Found a job. Studied French. Had foreign affairs that he described as being just alright. After six months he moved to the south of France, then Egypt, and then traveled with a Romanian pickpocket to Morocco. It was the Moroccan embassy that let him know his mother had been looking for him.
During that time he visited as many museums and historical places as he could. He hitch hiked the countryside. Snuck into abandoned temples and cathedrals, where normally only robed men walk. The Romanian convinced traders to take them through the Sahara on a trade route. The stories poured out him. Quickly his tight jeans and feminine lisp melted as a young Harrison Ford emerged, fuddling his words while picking at a chopsticks that he couldn't figure out how to use.
He laughed at everything I said. Comedy is a defense mechanism for me when I feel threatened, disadvantaged, or unsure of myself. I can make people laugh, and it gives me a hope they might stick around. They’d look past my double chin, my tendency to talk over them, or my need to be right in arguments because when they’re around me they feel happy. Nicholas would laugh sincerely, and I would laugh with him, and he would tell me how much fun he was having.
We casually dated for a few weeks, and while he was from the richest area of town there was no denying that his parents pushed him out like a small bird and said fly. While I have grown accustomed for waiting and paying a higher price for the best food and experience, he was searching for speed, quantity, and price. He didn’t go out often, and he didn’t drink so I can understand why he kept quiet hobbies of reading and writing.
To my chagrin, he decided to accompany me to an art opening where I was showing three new pieces, illustrated around a night of storytelling and comedy. Three strangers stood before a crowd expressing their truth in hopes of various outcomes, proclamations of overcoming while for others the night served as a type of confession. We spoke of the evening over dinner at a French café, escargot that escorted itself around the room as its rich scent intoxicated the surrounding tables. Herbs mingling with butter, I had no shame to take more than my share, drenching my bread with the fragrant first course. For months during the prior school year, I had returned to basic cooking. Leaving my chef-inspired recipes on their pages, I had no one to cook with or for anymore. It didn’t bring me the same enjoyment. Which is why at that moment, the rich flavor against dry crust just brought me to a familiar foreign land.
I asked Nicholas if he could ever stand in front of others, and confess a truth in his life. He held his breath as he thought and released it disappointedly, eyes darting across the table still as if the answer was there somewhere. “I haven’t done anything worth sharing”, The Harrison Ford complex was slipping away and the sweet-faced boy was coming into sight. He had felt unaccomplished, behind his peers and friends, as if trekking through the Sahara had been written on too many times already.
I didn’t see him again after those three weeks. I wasn’t interested in calling, and apparently neither was he. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t value his story. Maybe, like some of the women I have met in my 30s, he had never taken the time to inventory his experiences. To give them worth and meaning, to take ownership over experiences inflicted on ourselves as well as those that are given to us without our permission. It’s not out of superiority, or egocentrism that the habit emerges. I feel it falls on the opposite hand, the inventory and appraisal of my experiences have only happened after I have felt it has all gone to shit. For me, it is only when things feel rotten, where I am forced to find the humor, joy, value, or self-reflection in the situation. I fear if the inventory and appraisal of the experience doesn’t happen, I would have wasted a perfectly good evening on a rotten memory of eating snails with my gay friend Nick.
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