Chapter 1: The Date that Wasn’t Really a Date
It started like it always starts…at least for me. Girl meets girl, girl becomes friends with girl, and then one day…BAM! Like a slap in the face, like someone threw a bucket of icy water at me. Just like the very first time, some years ago, when I first fell for another girl. It’s wakening, it’s electric, this feeling that goes through your body. In half a second, travelling at the speed of light, it carries through your whole bloodstream, from the cells in the tip of your fingers too deep inside your chest. It’s a great feeling, terrifying, but a great one nonetheless. And for me, it always happens like this. The first time, all these other times, this time…
Anna.
My heart leaped and jump every time I saw her, so every weekday for an entire summer. We worked together, which made things more complicated for me. I didn’t want to ask her out while we were still coworkers because, even though I could feel this magnetic attraction between us, I wasn’t sure she felt it too. I didn’t want to scare her, insult her, hurt her. And I know you must think, how can she be hurt, insulted or scared by this, on the contrary, having someone crush on you is endearing, flattering, and just a whole lot of cute. Well, that’s the kind of thing I have to think of every time I have feelings for someone; because I’m a girl. If you know the other person’s sexual orientation, it’s easier to make a move if you’re aware of which team they play with. But if you don’t know, you need to be careful. Because most (straight) people are fine with people being gay, but they get very uncomfortable when a gay person crushes on them.
Anyhow, I decided to wait until the summer was over to ask her out, to make things easier for her (and me) in case she said no. But after a summer of mini heart attacks every time she entered a room, I couldn’t wait indefinitely. So the last Friday of the summer, the week before going back to school, I asked her out.
We were in the metro, on the orange line, going in the same direction. Sitting side by side, I can’t remember what we were talking about. One of her hand was resting on her leg, and right next to her thumb, I saw that little scar. I reached for her hand without thinking, picking it up like an object to look at the scar more closely. And she let me. She didn’t pull her hand away, she just stood there, with that amazing smile of hers on her lips, explaining to me how she got the scar while I was still holding her hand. So, since I was already holding her hand, I decided to just go for it.
“So, I was wondering, do you know what the World Press Photo is?”
She smiled, “Yes! I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never been.”
“Well, would you like to go with me this weekend?”
“Sure!”
BOUM! Mind blown! I’m in heaven.
But I’ll spare you the roller coaster of emotions I went on the day before and let’s fast forward to the actual date.
After spending way too much time second-guessing my outfit, I make my way to the metro. She lives a few stations away, so I make my way there and wait for her on the metro platform. When she turns the corner, I can’t help but smile like I’m 6 and it’s my birthday. We catch the next metro, and so far it feels exactly like when we would take the metro together to go to work. Orange line until we reach Champ-de-Mars, a short walk to the Marché Bonsecours and we are there. The line to get in isn’t too long, and while we wait I tell her stories about my awful ex-roommate, and she tells me about the country she left when she was a child.
The exposition is beautiful, troubling, heart-breaking and heart-warming.
From the picture emanates a special type of quiet, one that slows down your heartbeat and forces you to experience so many feelings all at once. It’s mesmerizing, it’s disturbing, it’s fascinating.
And I’m experiencing all these feelings next to her, and I can see on her face she feels the same feelings when she looks at the pictures. Towards the end of the exhibition, my attention deviates a little from the photos and focuses on one fact: “this date is almost over.” In a few minutes, we’ll be walking out of here, and we’ll probably get back on the metro and go home. Or…I could make a move, and see what happens.
So, while she’s looking at this one picture, I take a step closer to her. She looks up at me, her eyes full of conflicting feelings for the art around us (and maybe for me too), and I lean in. My hand reaching for her cheek, and her hand rising up and resting on my chest, stopping me.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
Oh…
I feel my face turn red. I take two steps back and shove my hands in my pocket, I stare at the ground, not daring to meet her gaze.
“I’m sorry”, I say.
“It’s ok.”
And then we leave.
And that’s how I went on a date that wasn’t a real date, I was just not aware of that fact.
True story or fiction?
Leave your answer in the comment section! ;)
Images obtained from:
http://www.worldpressphotomontreal.ca/#info https://i.pinimg.com/originals/78/c3/b4/78c3b463df7545c5b885b60e8d0e356a.jpg