And in this blur of deciphering auto-correct and imperfect writing, it happens: I discover something that I think the back of my brain has wondered all along, but the rest of me was too afraid to consider. And now it must be considered.
We are talking about rules, like life’s unwritten rules. Things everyone follows for some reason, but haven’t been officially approved by anyone. I’m telling about how I really appreciatethat our together-separate relationship breaks so many of these unwritten rules, and how nice that is. We spend several screens discussing how society writes rules that we just accept as unbreakable. I find myself wondering how I feel about rules the world hands us, and then… I think it’s meant as a joke, but I can’t stop staring at the screen.
It says: “LOL Some rules should absolutely never be broken. Like when to microwave tuna, or which urinal you choose, or which joke to tell witch people.”
It hangs on my screen, moves up a notch when the next text pings.
“*which” it says. “I don’t know much about witches. Sorry. LOL.”
Urinals.
The word just hangs there, seeming brighter than all of the others.
I feel like part of me knew it all along. But I still can’t breathe properly. My chest pounds. The word still glows on my screen.
My secret person is a “he.”
My brain goes wild. I get flashes of lycra-stretching biceps and v-tapers and blue eyes and back muscles tensing in a hug, and warm, strong hands on my shoulder. I realize all of these things are Martin’s. I can’t stop. My neck is getting hot, and then I feel a surge of shame that I’m message-dating this guy while thinking of Martin. And his thighs. I can’t process this. I can’t even start.
Another message slides up the screen: “I think I’ve broken all of these rules at least once.”
I can’t breathe. I flip my phone over, darkening it with the table. I search the room, the tables, the people, as if something around me has some answers. Suddenly the chair feels too confining and I’m up, walking toward, well, I don’t know where. I get halfway to the bathroom when I remember my phone,make an awkward U-turn and grab it from the table, heading again toward the restroom.
Walking and typing, I text: “Give me a minute.”
“OK,” it pings.
I crash through the restroom door, eying the urinals, avoiding them, and head to the sink. The mirror is too painful, so I avoid it by running water and washing my hands, using too much soap, letting the icy water wash the bubbles away. They linger at the drain.
The room blurs around me.
My secret person is a guy!
The words echo on the tile walls around me as my brain replays moments of my adventure over and over, trying to fit what has happened with what I know now. What confuses me the most is that it all fits. Every moment. Every adventure. Every conversation fits into this new world and fits so well I don’t feel like I’ve been tricked or manipulated. Tricked and manipulated would be so much easier to process emotionally. My heart is pounding and I don’t dare look into the mirror.
As the last soap bubble disappears in a spiral, I have a sudden moment of clarity, finally looking at my reflection, like the two of us are having a conversation: I’m on a date. With a guy. And I don’t want it to stop. Maybe.
I think the mirror even says the words aloud back at me.
The tornado of questions in my brain, the flashing replay, doesn’t stop entirely, but downgrades to a mild storm. Maybe I don’t have to understand everything I’m thinking right now in this bathroom in this cafe. Maybe I can figure it out later. Right now I’m on a date. That I’m enjoying. Except, of course, for the fact that I’m standing in a bathroom holding onto the counter for dear life.
My friend in the mirror affirms my thinking with a shaky smile and a blink, and we both release our grip on the bathroom fixtures.
Heading back to my table I text: “I’m back.”
“You okay?”
I can’t possibly summon an answer to that question.
I look up from my phone, wishing mildly for affirmation from my mirror friend again, and then back to my phone: “I just needed a minute.”
It can’t be helped that the rest of our conversation slows, careful and tentative, at least on my screen. I can’t fight the feeling that we’ve hit a reset button, like somehow there’s a new person on the other end of each text and we’re starting over. I keep having to dismiss this notion again and again, realizing that nothing has actually changed. My secret person—I mean, he—is still the same person who wrote the cards and the journal and my adventure. He’s the same person with the brownies and the creativity. This reminder feels like an asterisk marking the end of every new text he sends. Like the low-pitched speed-talking lawyer who details the terms and conditions of an advertisement: “He’s the same person. Nothing has changed.”
Time blurs as we chat. Each message pinging with the weight of that small asterisk, that voiced disclaimer.
“Thank you for joining me at our separate cafes, William,” he says when we both feel the evening begin to wind down.
“I feel like I’m starting to know you.” I type the words, pausing mid-sentence. The truth behind them frightens me more than I wish to admit.
