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Nineteen with a nervous stomach and a dry mouth. I keep myself occupied by reading the drink menu over and over until I can taste the alcohol in my mouth. But, no, that's not really alcohol. That's just the acetone on my breath because I haven't eaten all day. Yesterday morning, as I conjured up an image of you based on scant descriptions, I decided that my thighs were too wide for your supposed party boy preferences. That is why I am sitting here dressed in black, stomach growling, reading about a martini that I probably won't even order when you finally arrive. A friend on my right keeps calling me Morticia and I suddenly feel like one of those shabby women at funerals that wear frumpy navy dresses with lace collars. I should probably leave before you see me. That way you won't be disappointed when you realize the girl in that picture hanging up in that dorm room only appears flawless thanks to an inebriated amateur photographer.

I keep looking around for a tall blond so this lopsided blind date can begin its inevitable demise. Or what did we call it? The "lopsided blind group date that wasn't really a date, but more like just some friends hanging out even though two of the four people had never met before"

Yes, that was it.

The first tall blond I spot is a thirty-something with two children. Not really my type, but the kids were cute. Back to the drink menu. The second tall blond I spot is, wow, I really hope that's you. He looks about my age. He also looks about as nervous as I am so it can't be you because you're supposed to be cocky and arrogant. That is what she said. The mystery blond is with a friend. I'm nudging my friend to check out the guys at the door never thinking that one of them could actually be you. And, oh, my friend is up from her chair waving the two of you over. Fuck, my thighs are so damn huge and my hair is stringy. Christina, Plain and Tall. Don't look at me, this isn't how I usually look. I'm having a bad hair day and black isn't as slimming as I thought it was. I wish I had that photograph in my hand to put in front of my face. I would have cut out a hole at the lips and spoken through that instead.

We are introduced to each other casually. You blush when I smile at you and my hand jerks upwards to shake yours. You simply stare down at it and then back up at my face. You don't think to shake it until your friend mutters, "Shake her hand dumb ass." It is only then that I realize why you were so hesitant to in the first place. I try to wipe my hand dry subtly, but you notice and apologize.

I think it's cute that you're sweating. And apologizing. And grinning shyly. My thighs feel a little bit smaller; my clothing a little more vibrant. Christina, Alive and Giggling.

You're nothing like the psychotic party boy I had imagined. The only crazy thing you're guilty of is falling for a girl like me.

Your good-night is polite and then you're gone. I'm walking up the street to my house slowly because a sliver of me is hoping that you'll put the car in reverse and ask me to jump in. A car passes by, but it's my neighbour. I walk faster.

And there you were.

Sitting beside me in the emergency room. You didn't leave the room when they checked my heart and hovered closely when they drew blood. Part of you wanted to observe their technique, but the part that clung to my free hand told me that you just wanted to make sure I was okay. You guided the IV pole for me when I needed to use the bathroom because I was too weak to walk down the hallway and drag a clunky pole simultaneously. You told me to yell out when I was ready to get up from the toilet just in case I passed out again. As I sat there, hands cupping my jaw, I watched the IV fluid drip into the chamber and wondered if you had imagined life with me would be anything like this when we first sat across from each other blushing over french fries and free pop refills. If you had known all of this would you have bothered to call me? Would you have persisted and persisted and persisted until I finally caved in?

I get up from the toilet by myself. My knees are unstable, but I maintain my balance long enough to wash my hands and open the door. I don't want to leave the bathroom because I feel that I embarrass you somehow; that you feel ashamed having to maneuver an IV pole while I teeter dangerously down the hallway. Maybe when I open the door you won't even be there. Maybe you will have finally realized that I'm not the same girl in the photograph. I'm not flawless. I'm not one-dimensional. I'm not always smiling. You can't slip me in your wallet and forget me on the bus.

The IV beeps, I fix it, and open the door.

You're there.

Your back is against the wall, but you're still there. You're not surprised to see me walk out of the bathroom by myself. Both of us knew that I wasn't really going to yell out for you. You help me back into bed and we wait another four hours. Together. I spend most of it sleeping while you drink coffee and watch me sleep in between newspaper crossword puzzles. The room smells too sterile. The man in the bed next to me has severe angina. His wife is chatty even though her husband is in obvious distress. I think that her chattiness was a way of detaching herself from the reality of the situation. She asks me what is wrong.

"I'm dehydrated," I tell her. Sure, that was part of it.

"Dehydrated? That's silly. Dear girl, all you have to do is drink."

I think about that damn drink menu that I memorized the day we first met. Martinis, margaritas, and Irish coffees. While sitting in that cold aseptic room I realize that my mouth is still dry and my thighs are still too big. There is still acetone on my breath. Nothing has changed yet nothing is the same.

You're there though. At least I have you.

I'm changing out of the flimsy lavender hospital gown and you're sitting on the edge of the bed with my jeans in your hands. No, you're driving me home and I'm asking you not to drop me off in front of my house because I live with an Australian and a boomerang. No, I'm dialing your number, speaking to your brother, and wondering where you are while trying not to sound like I care too much. No, you're telling me we should have our own exclusive post-exam celebration. No, your lips are touching mine for the first time and I'm having trouble exhaling. No, it's an August afternoon in the forest. No, you're giving me a diamond bracelet and I'm embarrassed to give you the jacket I thought would be too expensive. No, your aunt is speaking to me in French and I tell her that I like potatoes. No, we're eating grilled cheese sandwiches off of expensive china and drinking Dr. Pepper from wine glasses. No, your mother is calling me in hysterics telling me that something awful has happened. No, we're all going out to dinner to the same restaurant where we first ate. No, we're eating the snow in Switzerland just to see if it tastes any different. No, you're letting go of my hand and walking out of the concert leaving me to stand next to him. No, I'm nauseous at the thought of no longer having you by my side. No, you're proposing to me at our spot. No, you're driving down that street with no lights and I'm convinced that I saw a ghost bus zoom by. No, we're eating homemade lasagna in a tent in your living room. No, I'm outside on the driveway rapping with an oversized hoodie on and you're trying to make the car bounce. No, we're playing the "I Love Everything" game and you're winning. No, we're arranging the furniture in our apartment. No, you're flying back to help me pack everything up. No, you're snowboarding down a street in Whistler even though there isn't any snow. No, you're finally dancing with me at a party. No, I'm in bed watching Scrubs while you're studying beside me. No, it's snowing outside and as I cuddle up in your arms I realize just how small my thighs really are because you make me feel weightless.

If you had known all of this four years ago would you have still called? If you had known how much of a struggle it would be to love me would you have been so persistent?

"And you're cool with that?" you ask over the phone, "I mean, you're cool with..."

"Us?" I interject.

"Yeah," you say slowly for my sake, "us."

"I'm cool," I reassure you. "Are you cool?"

You start to laugh.

"I've been trying to make you my girlfriend for the past two weeks," you tell me still laughing, "I think I'm cool."

I can hear the excitement in your voice. You're giddy and euphoric. I'm cautiously optimistic. That phone conversation ended years ago, but I am still thankful that you called. I know you would do it all over again. Yes, even if you knew all of this then. I know that you would still pick up the phone, you would still dial, your hand would still cling to mine, you would still help navigate me wherever I needed to go. Hospital hallways, airport terminals, life, wherever.

I know this because it has been four years since you called and you're still here.
I know it isn't always a party living with a girl like me.
© 2005 - 2024 xonlyindreamsx
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0Hamster0's avatar
You write beautifully. :)