Wednesday, February 16, 2005


He asked me if I was single, and I think he would have been disappointed if I would've said no. He likes me, I know it. I can tell by the way he's been hanging around me all night. The way he complimented my high-heeled boots. The way he came to me when I called him. The way he sat next to me in a room full of his friends.

I'm dizzy from the flirtation. I'm conscious of everything I'm doing - Am I standing up straight? Is my tummy sucked in? How's my hair? Do I have anything in my teeth? - and hoping he's watching. When I can feel his eyes on me, I'm coquettish. I say all the right things, make my own jokes and laugh at his. In my head, I know I've got him. I know he feels like the lucky one, talking to me. I'm confident. I'm desirable. He wants me.

He leans into me when he talks. Our knees kiss under the table, and neither of us pulls away. We sit, leg to leg, and continue talking to other people in the room. I can feel the heat of his thigh through my jeans, delicious in its secrecy.

We're shameless in finding ways to touch. Two twenty-somethings engaging in childish games of keep-away, he steals my cigarettes to force me to put my arms around him to get them back. I press in closely, hoping to offer him a whiff of the Chanel Allure I spritzed on my clavicle. It's exhilarating.

He mentions that he really should stop into my bank to see me. My pulse quickens.

"I'd like that," I say though a sultry smile. I tilt my forehead toward him, looking up at him and hoping he'll notice my blue eyes.

"Me too." He moves his arm and it touches mine. I feel heady. I'm giddy from anticipation.

I love this. I haven't been single in so long, I've forgotten how delirious this can make you. Meeting someone, flirting, touching. I look at his veined forearms over the back of a chair, pleased with myself for choosing to come out tonight.

When it's time for me to leave, he offers to walk me out to my car. He leaves his friends inside to help me navigate around puddles and over snow to my waiting vehicle.

"So I'll see you this week?" he says, brushing the light snow off of my window with his hand.

"I hope so."

We're awkward and unsure, like teenagers. It feels luscious.

He gives me a hug and a small peck of a kiss, and I climb into my car.

That's it. Right there. That's the exact moment that I turn into a mutant.

When I pressed in my clutch and turned my key, I became one of them. A chick-mutant. I joined the ranks of Storm and Wolverine, but my special power has nothing to do with controlling the weather or retractable steel claws. My special powers are Insecurity, Second-Guessing and Obsession.

I don't know what happens to me when I like a boy. After the initial flirtation, when the promise of a second encounter has been mentioned, I morph from the confident, sexy, funny girl he met into some sick version of a high-school freshman with a face full of pimples and an extra hundred pounds. I start wondering...Does he like me? Maybe I had bad breath. Shouldn't he have called by now? Maybe I should drive by his office. Did I look desperate? I hope he still likes me. Has he thought about me since we met? He must've liked me, it was unmistakable. I'll replay the evening's events over and over in my head, searching for the sign that it was just me, not him, interested in being seen again. I'll think about him when I wake up, I'll hope to run into him in town, and I'll probably even think about him before I tumble into sleep. I'll ponder what I'll do when I see him. Will I mention that he didn't come in as soon as I hoped he would? Will I bring up the fact that he said he'd visit me at all? But I won't drive by his office, I won't call him first and when he does see me, I'll be the same girl he met. I'll be funny and charming and cute, and he'll be oblivious to the fact that I've been thinking about him for a week.

I don't even like the girl I become when I'm infatuated. I don't recognize myself. I become unsure of my appeal, worried that I won't be liked, afraid that I'll get my hopes up and be disappointed. But I believe that my mutation is a result of desperately wanting to be swept off of my feet. I meet a guy in a bar, tell him where I work, and hope that he'll send me flowers the next day. When a guy says "I'll go to the bank and visit you next week," I hope he'll surprise me by coming in this week. I expect every man I meet to go above and beyond the call of duty, to worship and romance me from the moment we meet. And, more often than not, I am disappointed.

It's a possibility that one day I'll meet someone who will sweep me off my feet, who will find me irresistible enough to do all the little things I want without me having to drop any hints. But until that day comes, I'll be hanging out with Professor X and Jean Grey, hoping to be accepted by society, even though I'm a mutant.


Scoot said...

Nice try, but I think you need to come visit Wisconsin so NJ and I can take you out and show you what real chick mutants are like. :)

mermaid14118337 said...

SCoot, Scoot....that's just nasty! ha..ha.......