You look hot in pink. It doesn’t mean you’re gay, but that you’re comfortable with your masculinity. That Lacoste polo you have, the one you wore to Max McHull’s Boxing Day Bash. Pale pink, the color of cotton candy. That’s what it looks like, all soft and sweet and sugary and I could just devour you.
I could devour you. Will you let me? Do you taste sweet? Tangy? What kind of toothpaste do you use? Are you a vegetarian?
Guys in pink are usually vegetarians.
Ashton Kutcher rocks pink and he looks like a man, a real man, hard, muscular, raw, even with the longish hair and feminine fingers. Have you seen his fingers?
Do you think he eats meat? Demi, at least, seems the vegan type.
Are your fingers slim? Squishy? Stiff like twigs or soft like sausage? I can’t tell.
There’s so much I don’t know about you, not yet.
Did you have fun last night? I wish I could have gone, but I would have stuck out like little Zahara in a room with Kate’s eight. With twelve people attending and guests unwelcome, it wasn’t an option. I know that. But your friends should be more open-minded.
Tonight is Stompin’ Sambuca Shots Sunday Stampede at The Rodeo. I’d rather be fired by Donald Trump than listen to old Billy Ray, or his even his daughter. And sambuca seems strange. Why not whiskey? Or beer? But Tony Anderson is organizing it, and he’s a good friend of yours. I shouldn’t be so judgmental.
It starts at seven but you won’t arrive until around eight-forty-five, after you get off work. Where do you work? I can’t find it anywhere.
See you tonight. Will you be in a cowboy hat?
From eight-thirty until ten I sat, waited, made small talk with the bartender from Indianapolis. Did you know he’s a father of fourteen? And single. Like Octomom, only without the topless photo shoots. Bet he’d like the pics though. They should hook up.
You said you were there. Even today. How could I have missed you?
You were with that girl, Lady Lucy Luscious.
You wore your pink shirt.
But I know you’re single. I know a lot.
Your favorite music includes: Aerosmith; Bach; Collective Soul; Dylan, Bob; Gaga, Lady; Radiohead; Vampire Weekend; and Z, Jay.
Your favorite movies are: Black Swan, I <3 Huckabees, Rocky (all of them), and Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (the original).
You adore Hunter S. Thompson. And quote him frequently.
Your favorite activities include camping, stamp collecting, adventures, gymmin’ it, and drinking beer.
You had a beer in your hand all night. Corona. And one time a Bud Light, but you might have just been holding it for that kid with the checkered shirt and glared glasses and a smile eating his face while he dug through his wallet. Did you think the sambuca thing was stupid too? Hicks don’t drink sambuca. But Lady Lucy Luscious wasn’t holding anything cold and carbonated. Was she doing shots? Does she like them, or was it because they were cheap?
Is something beginning there?
You’ve been single since June 2010. That’s the last time there’s evidence of you with Holly Hemlock; you attended her cousin’s wedding, Melissa Sutherland (Hemlock).
Time to step up my game.
It’s been a few days. What have you been up to? Were you with her? Busy since classes began?
What if something happened? No, it couldn’t have. If it did, there would be evidence on your friends’ profiles, well wishes and get well soons and maybe even a group asking for support and prayers but there’s not, there’s nothing, I have nothing.
Are you ill? Is that why you were at the pharmacy that day? I tried to peek over your shoulder, see what the prescription was for, but I didn’t recognize the name. All I got was yours.
Soon you’ll be glad that happened, glad you were so sick no matter how bad it was because it meant I finally learned your name. The Amnesty International emails aren’t from you, even though you ask for email addresses, and there was that list of physics marks posted but there were seventeen males all in the A-range, so it was impossible to tell which one was you. So see, it was the illness that finally brought us together, and isn’t that worth everything?
I’ve been watching for you at the pharmacy in case you return for a refill. I thought I saw you the other day while I was stocking the vitamins, but it was just some guy with the same straight shoulders and blond hair.
Are you with Lady Lucy Luscious? Why? It’s impossible to respect someone who makes up a name. Someone who sounds like a porn star or a stripper or someone who plays roller derby.
I could play roller derby.
Where are you?
There are no events coming up. No status updates. No one has even been posting on your timeline.
I checked Lady Lucy Luscious’ profile, too. Max McHull, Tony Anderson, Michael McLachlan, Seth Manning. Your sister, Lydia Nordstrom (or is she your cousin?). All of them, I’ve scanned looking for something, anything, but there’s no hint. I don’t know where else to search.
The physics building is always too busy. You must spend a lot of time there, but I’ve never seen you. Where are you hiding?
Has your internet been cut off? Are you having money troubles? Overwhelmed by school? Lost in the lust of a new romance?
You graduated from Ridgeview High, class of 2010. But I’ve never seen you near the school. Perhaps you’ve moved out of your parents’ house, perhaps you spend a lot of time at the university, perhaps you take a different route, perhaps you took the bus to school everyday but I’ve checked all the neighborhoods, all of them, and nothing. You used to work at Sport Chek #346, but you never stop by to visit. Never have I seen you grab a coffee in the physics building. Stamp World is always empty, why aren’t you ever there? Was the stamp collecting thing a joke?
You must be smart. Physics kids always are. But you like I <3 Huckabees, and isn’t that supposed to be deep? All philosophical and existential and shit? When I saw it the first time I didn’t get it. But I didn’t think I was supposed to. Science is my forte, not thoughts, not ideas. But you, you’re multi-dimensional. You’re well-rounded. And you read Thompson! I tried to get through Fear and Loathing, but couldn’t. Too many drugs, too much blah-de-blah, I kept getting lost, confused, all whirlwinds and rainbows. Made me imagine what Lindsey Lohan must feel like all the time.
Do you do drugs? Is that why you like him? What about Lady Lucy Luscious? Are you the Blake to her Amy? The Bobby to her Whitney? No, that’s insensitive. But maybe its okay see, you need to learn that it always ends badly with drugs. She’s a bad influence, I think. You’re better than that.
I won’t judge you, though, if you’re into that stuff. It makes you more interesting, just another side of you to discover.
I saw you today.
Did you recognize me? From the pharmacy, or from when you explained how it’s legal to rape children in Brazil, or from that night at Roxy’s when you got so drunk you tried to paint the wall with pizza sauce and rum and the side of your face?
It was a good idea, the coffee shop in the physics building. The Girl Who Played With Fire passed the time while I waited, hoped, and there you were. With textbooks in one hand, wallet in the other and a backpack smushing your shoulders to your hips (you even look sexy with a hunch), you took your place in line. I was behind you.
Do you remember?
– You must have your whole life in that bag!
Stupid comment, sure, I felt like Kristen Stewart on a late night interview all awkward and stuttery and grasping but you were kind.
– Yeah, busy few weeks.
And I felt better then. Better, until a dark-haired girl with a gap between her teeth came and put her arm around you.
Lady Lucy Luscious.
You should be with another blonde. And your teeth are so perfect, like mine. We’ll look good together.
I’m sorry it’s going to come down to this.
If you’d come online more often things would be different. I could continue showing up at parties and bumping into you at the mall and, oh, what a coincidence it would be that we’re always in the same place at the same time.
That’s how it was supposed to happen.
But without more clues it can’t. We should know each other by now.
We’re supposed to be together. Like Brangelina, we’ll fall in love. It will be an accident, completely unexpected but the chemistry will be undeniable, we won’t be able to fight it. Once we meet, one of us without the other will be like a magazine without pictures, like one chopstick, like lipstick with no liner; useless, miserable, flowing with frustration and filled with fear of life without the other. We won’t need to get married. Children, charity, that’s what’s important. We won’t marry until everyone, everywhere can get married but that won’t change our love.
I’m behind schedule. By this point seven years ago Brad had already filed for divorce, and was (it is speculated) seeing Angelina. Wouldn’t it be lovely if we could make our debut at Monica’s wedding? June tenth, the same day Mr. And Mrs. Smith premiered. The movie that birthed their love.
I found her.
It was easy, really. All I had to do was create a fake profile, add her as a friend. She’s the manager at the Victoria’s Secret downtown.
Is that why you like her? I could work at a lingerie store.
So I showed up, asked her to help me find a bra. I don’t like her. The air seeps between her teeth when she speaks, it’s audible, like an almost-lisp. And she talks from one side of her mouth, and the freckles on her face clash with her almost-black hair. And her tits are small, especially to be working in a lingerie store. What do you see in her? You should feel lucky I’m here to save you.
She was rude on the phone. I was in the fitting room so she didn’t think I could hear, and I couldn’t, not really, I could only hear her tone, none of the words, none of the phrases, but her tone, it was short, snappy, and she was talking fast and when I came out her freckles were hiding under the red of her cheeks. There was something going on, someone, somewhere didn’t like her and it gave me something to hold, to work towards, it gave me hope.
So when I was back in front of my computer I examined her pictures. And right away I found something.
There was a photo of her in Danier. Shopping. In a leather store! You must not have seen it, perhaps you don’t care enough about her to analyze her pictures. But leather. I bet she eats steak every day and has three fly swatters and maybe even killed a goldfish once due to negligence.
So it’s not much. Not yet. I can admit that. But she’s clearly not right for you. I’m doing you a favor. I’d join PETA, if you wanted me to. You must like pets. K-Fed, my bulldog, will adore you.
I’m sorry. I know it hurts now, but trust, it’s for the best.
After Leathergate I looked at her friends’ profiles, Harmony McPhee, and Rochelle LeLeivre, and Anna Marpole, and Samantha Awning.
Samantha Awning. Something strange happened when I clicked on her. See, we had no mutual friends. But we should have: Lady Lucy Luscious. They were in ninety-seven pictures together, from six different albums, spread out over two years. They were tighter than Drew and Cam, or Matt and Ben, or Courtney and Jen, or even Paris and Nicole before Nicole got clean. Why were they no longer connected?
So I sent her a message. Said I was writing an article about Lucy’s store, that I wanted to learn more about her from her friends.
This girl, she didn’t even need to be prodded. It all came out.
Lucy made out with her boyfriend, Rex Moxsom, at Roxy’s one night. I found photographs. They were both there the night in question, and there’s one of them dancing. Both parties untagged themselves. I found the album through Harmony McPhee, who also attended. It all comes together like a soap opera, only not quite as scandalous and I’m pretty sure there was no incest or royalty involved.
So I had to tell you. You wouldn’t have believed me alone, an anonymous source, that’s why I included names. Forwarded the album. Told you I was there, that I saw it happen, that it was after you started dating, even though I’m not completely positive about that part. But that’s irrelevant. You, you’re one of the good ones. You wouldn’t want to be with a homewrecker; I bet you don’t even find Denise Richards attractive.
Because I know what type you are, the respectful type, a real good guy. You deserve to know because you’re not like that. You have fun, sure, but you’re not about to pull a Tiger or a Jesse James. You’re like Matt Damon or Matthew McConaughey only I’ve never seen you without your shirt.
I’d like to see you without your shirt.
It’s working already.
Your friends, they’ve heard. At least Max McHull. Dude. Friday. Roxy’s. We’re all going, you included. Trust me, you need it buddy.
I’ll see you there.
– Think I should flash him to get his attention?
– Probably work better than if I did it.
A better conversation starter this time, no? Made you laugh. I saw you at the bar, slithered my way in next to you, pretended I’d been there, waiting, for eight minutes just like you.
I didn’t need to flash the bartender. But you did buy my drink.
– You look familiar.
– Do I? I go out a lot, you must’ve seen me around.
Cool. I was so cool. You bent over to scream into my ear. You still looked sexy, even with a hunch.
– Favorite movie?
– Willy Wonka. The original. And I love the Rocky movies.
We Found Love came on, we shimmied away from the bar. I led the way, glanced back, you were still behind me, following, eyes burning into my back like a fever. I stopped, leaned against a railing overlooking the dance floor, watched girls in miniskirts and five-inch heels grind below, heads jerking from side to side, hips bumping back and forth.
I leaned towards you, stood on my tiptoes, lips by your ear but speaking into your cheek so you could feel them, soft, sweep your skin.
– I hate to admit this to a stranger, but I love this song.
– Me too, you said, smiling, no, grinning, beaming, your face stretched so tight your laugh lines might come early. That’s what botox is for.
Your fingers found mine, you stepped ahead, started down the stairs towards the neon lights and speakers. Your hands found my waist, mine clutched your shoulders, your back, our bodies pressed together, torso against torso, legs between legs, fingers in hair, lips against neck we danced. Your arms cocooned me, your sweat seeped out, slippery then sticky, from your pores it oozed into mine and now you’re a part of me.
You told me your name. I pretended I didn’t already know. I gave you my phone number, and you gave me yours. You haven’t called. But you accepted my friend request on Facebook.
This is how it begins. We connected. We like the same movies, the same music; at least you think we do and I can learn. We’ll go on a few dates, I’ll delight you with stories of the last time I went camping, tell you of my daily work-out routine. Lately I’ve been working on my calves. Can you tell? The dates will turn into more, a relationship, you’ll realize you’re lost without me, I’m the lime to your Corona, the marshmallow to your campfire, the tie to your three-piece suit. Months will pass, March, April, May and it’ll be June.
I’ll ask you earlier, April, probably, and things will be going so well you couldn’t possibly say no.
– Boyfriend, I’ll say, since I’ll prefer it to your real name, My cousin Monica is getting married. Will you accompany me?
– Of course, darling, you’ll say, I wouldn’t miss it.
And we’ll make our debut, the new happy couple, meant to be, so in love, so connected, so beautiful. You should wear pink, show everyone how well you pull it off. It will be the first wedding of many, this summer, then the next, then the next, until our own. I bet you’re a hometown boy with a big family, but we’ll have a destination wedding. Cuba, perhaps, or the Bahamas. Something small, intimate, with only the sun, the sand, and our closest family and friends in attendance. Can you see it too?
It’s time to say farewell. Not to you, oh no, not you future lover, boyfriend, husband. But to this journal. I have to delete all the files now that it’s happening, now that you’ll be here someday soon. What if you turn out to be a snooper?