here is a leaf whose color I can’t match
My mom tells me, “There’s a lid for every pot,” but I’m starting to think maybe I’ll prove her wrong and go potless—or lidless? I don’t know which one I’m supposed to be. All I know is I’ve tried every lid and pot at this school, and none of them fit. I’ve tried boys who wear small beanies and paint their nails black, tall soccer players who have conditioning in the morning, and anthro majors with buzz-cuts who look like they hate me. I’ve tried stoners, ketamine dealers, self-proclaimed empaths, and e-girls. I am telling you with certainty that no one fits. I don’t think you understand—if tonight goes badly, I’m giving up on love.
But just for shits and giggles, we’ll give it one last go, this time with a girl from Lit Theory. She’s pretty. She’s got black hair, an athletic frame, and not a lot to say in class. Other than that, I’m not sure. We talked one time on our way out of class; I learned that she’s a middle child—the reason for the silence, probably—and she learned that it’s just me and my parents. I told her that people think only-children are self-centered because we always get what we want, but my experience in meeting other only-children is that we’re chameleons. You need quiet, boisterous, attentive, spacey? I can do it.
At the end of my conversation with Jenna, I forgot for a moment about my fated loneliness and asked for her number. Now I’m waiting outside a little brick Chinese restaurant on the corner of a city block, next to a dry cleaner with neon lights buzzing in the window––an electric blue outline of a dress shirt casting a glow onto the street.
My hands are tucked under my sweater at the armpits. It got colder than I thought it would when the sun went down. There’s a plume of steam puffing up through a grate on the sidewalk, so I step onto it and that helps a bit. I bunch the cuff of my sweater up my arm to get a look at my quarter-sized Casio just as it hits eight. I’ve tried pulling up to these things both early and late, and I can’t settle on which works most in my favor. Tonight, I’m hoping it’s early.
“Hey,” Jenna says. I look up. There she is, smiling. She’s traded in the yoga pants and quarter zip for a fuzzy turtleneck, dark blue jeans, and Converse—and she has earrings on. I’ve never noticed her wearing earrings before. She looks nice. She looks like someone who is … nice. Look, I am aware that this is probably not the lid to my pot, but we’re talking about Lacan in class and I’m just wondering what her underwear looks like, so we’re here now, and it is what it is.
“Hey yourself,” I say. “Nice turtleneck.”
“Thanks, it’s my dad’s.” She shivers. “Hey, you wanna go inside? It’s fucking cold.”
We go inside. It’s small, only a few tables pushed against the walls, and there are people sitting and laughing and talking and generally seeming to enjoy themselves.
We sit down at a table for two, Jenna facing the window, me the kitchen. From behind the wooden counter with red envelopes and gold miniatures of animals, the sweet smell of pork buns drifts through the room. Jenna puts her elbows on the table and her chin on the heels of her hands. Then, she leans forward and smiles again, but this time a different smile than before—like she’s happy to be here. And I’m caught off guard because here is a leaf whose color I can’t match.
She says, “So, what do you like to do when you’re not bullshitting the reading for Lit Theory?”
I laugh without thinking, and then cover my mouth. It’s a laugh that only comes out when my dad makes a pun. I think about it for a minute: what do I like to do?
And all I can say is, “Good question.”
