Butterflies and Cutting Knives

This doesn’t feel right. It feels kind of like I expected, but that doesn’t make it any easier to manage. Are those wings or razor blades in my stomach? Do I look like I’m conscious in the moment, or do I look like the emotions I’m holding? I don’t know, all I can tell is that Jessica Fleetwood is sitting slightly hunched over in front of me, on my parents’ living room couch, eyes and nose slightly scrunched in a gut-wrenchingly cute way as she puts the finishing touches on our chemistry project.

”Which is more important to the brain, dopamine or serotonin?” She asked rhetorically, closing her laptop, subsequently her eyes, laying back on the couch and letting the relief of work well done wash over her face. I can tell that’s dopamine working it’s magic on her mind, but to see her bask in the glory of completion is more of an innuendo than I’m comfortable pointing out at this point in time. I’m paralyzed. I don’t even know how to talk to her right now. I know it’s just the topic of our project and she’s already sure of my perspective on it, but I’m really sitting here feeling like she just asked me for my opinion on the matter, and I’m tongue-tied. As if we haven’t been talking about this for weeks now. As if both of those chemicals weren’t in the middle of beating me into submission. It’s not like I’m some emotionally despondent worm, but rifling through emotions for other people has always been a weird thing for me. Especially when just watching an individual put her brain to work makes me melt and tense up all at once.

”Do you think it’s a question even worth asking? Will Mr. Robinson even care about the differences between the two chemicals that we’ve pointed out?” She asked suddenly, eyes fluttering open as if the relief weren’t enough to subdue the fear of failure. These questions pull me back out of my mind, which was trying to make sense of the urge to embrace her at the time. “Wait, you mean to tell me that your dopamine‘s already worn off? You’re already questioning your efforts? Might need to get that checked out, Jess,” I respond almost immediately, and your guess is as good as mine on which neurotransmitter was reponsible for that one.

She laughs, and the mysterious objects in my stomach seem to vibrate with the laughter in unison. That actually felt really good in a weird, harmonious way, but it‘s soon replaced with urgency and scrapes again as she begins packing her things into her book bag. ”I think we’ve done just fine, we’ve explained that dopamine is the working force behind motivation, effort, work and things of that nature. We’ve explained that serotonin is similar, but more akin to things like emotions, memories and nostalgia. Matter of importance for this particular matter is truly dependent on the individual mind, and I think that’ll be the most captivating part of the project.” I chimed in after a light pause with what felt like word salad to me, but hopefully made perfect sense to her. She speaks and the vibrations return, “I just hope it isn’t too far fetched a thought for some. It’s ironic how the reaction to our project is dependent on the two key factors of it, isn’t it?” I couldn’t agree more. I couldn’t agree less.

I couldn’t think of a response to that question, either, so now I’m guiding her to the door in the most gentlemanly, least mysogynistic way I possibly can. The maintained autonomy is a good way for me to make sure these feelings don’t leak off of me and onto her. Or I’m just too scared to make these emotions known yet and I’m watching her body language to see if I’m safe to spill them.

”Tell your parents I said thank you for having me, Drew, I had a great time meeting them and knocking this project out with you.” She said it like it was a matter of romantic importance. Or maybe she didn’t and I’m reading too deep. Ow, razor blades again, think of something to say Drew. “I’ll be sure to tell them, and thank you for coming! I hope I wasn’t too distracted and that you were comfortable with us.” Lord knows I had trouble keeping comfy OR focused sitting across from her that whole time. “I was more than comfortable and you’re a gem of a partner, I’d love to team up again next time we have the chance.” She spurts it out like it was a struggle to say it. “Absolutely, Jessica!” I open the front door, “I’d be honored to work with you again,“ She steps out onto the porch, “Text me and let me know that you made it home safe, okay?” And she nods her head as she makes her way to her car. “Goodnight, Drew!” As she backs out of my driveway. I’m watching the taillights leave my neighborhood. I’m closing the front door, turning my back to it, falling into it, and sinking to the floor like a scene in some cheesy teen romance movie.

I sat there until our front porch floodlight went out. Smiling, worrying, wondering and fantasizing while the dust and bugs outside danced underneath a spotlight only granted to them by way of motion in the same dusk and darkness that they’re aiming to escape from. This must be what my mother praised. This must be what dad told me to be careful about. When the light outside went out and I made my way back to my feet, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. Upon unlocking it and being greeted by my tiny glowing screen, I thought about if the bugs in the floodlight behind me could relate, if they could fathom how much bigger emotions and sentience could be compared to them. The text was from Jessica, it read, “Home safe, sweet dreams handsome!” Neurotransmitters or no, I’ll put my empathy to use tomorrow in order to clear my mind of these questions, and my stomach of these unwelcomed metaphorical guests.