I’m in sweatpants and have my backpack. He’s in khakis and a button down. From the moment I saw him waiting outside the coffee shop, it was immediately clear that only one of us thought this was a date, and both of us now know that person was not me. I thought I was catching up with a friend I never see, and he thought my mentioning of the recent end to my relationship the last time we spoke was a signal to take initiative, I’m assuming. And in those ten seconds it takes me to walk up to him, I can feel my breathing slow, so when he asks if I take cream in my coffee, he takes my silence as a yes. And when we’re inside, I can’t focus on anything other than the fact that today is a Hungry Day, and he put cream in my coffee. He’ll never know I believe cream is Public Enemy Number One, or that telling someone I don’t want cream requires too much effort if it’s a Hungry Day. And so we sit with a new type of silence between us.
He’s cute, I guess. Short black hair and taller than me, but I know already we’re not meant to fall in love. He seems too sweet, too unable to handle my truths. And as he’s speaking, I can’t stop thinking about all of the things I want to tell him. I want to talk about how I wore frog rain boots for three years straight when I was little and made my mom buy me a new pair when they wore out. I’d like to talk about how I almost broke my collarbone because I refused to back down from a dare or that I was raised Catholic but God, like Santa and the Easter Bunny, only exists for me in childhood memories. I know I won’t spend my nights telling him about what it was like when my Grandpa passed, and how it felt to hold his hand as his breaths became more and more shallow. He won’t hear that my alarms often have to be set to music because I firmly believe that incessant ringing is too depressing for mornings that already require effort to leave the bed. He’ll never discover that I am painfully stubborn to the point of self-destruction, or that I consider coffee shops to be my sanctuary. He won’t learn that I belt Amy Winehouse in the shower or watch Grey’s Anatomy religiously. He won’t learn that I think my mother is the fiercest woman that I know or that I still spend my nights wondering how she lived through my Uncle’s suicide. Obviously, I won’t tell him that I have been bulimic for months, but still, it’s a nice thought.
“You’re beautiful.”
He’s says it light and soft as if there is some sacred nature to his quiet confession. And I struggle to contain my laughter because now I have other things I’d like to tell him. I would start by telling him that the last time someone called me beautiful was at a bar a few days ago, and he slurred the sentence casually into my ear as his arm was wrapped too tightly around my waist and it reminded me of people, of moments I’ve spent years trying to forget. I’d mention how I felt trapped, sweaty and horribly alone. And I’d like to explain that those are the words I am supposed to repeat to myself over and over when I hate myself the most. I want to scream and writhe and shout and let him know the substance and pain that exists behind his words. When I am alone and exposed in front of a mirror, thinking about collarbones and thigh gaps and how it feels to be empty, I have to remind myself that I am beautiful, and his words are a light reminder that thin, is in fact, beautiful. But his soft utterance is so genuine and heartfelt my lips remain sealed. So I nod, bite my lip and whisper a short, “Thank You.”
And, after a conversation that takes years off my life, he leaves for class.