Heteronormative

First dates are always awkward. I put extra attention into things I usually don’t care about: Are my shoelaces tucked in? Are there any hairs out of place on top of my head? Will she hold it against me if I collect Pokémon cards? The last woman I went on a date with was not impressed by my first edition Charizard—her loss. 

I stare tentatively as I look into the bathroom mirror with a smudge towards the top left corner. “I’m not getting any younger,” I think. The lines on my forehead become more profound, and the circles under my eyes darker. I witness gray hairs scattered throughout my matted-down black hair, desperate for a haircut. I began practicing responses to typical dating questions; overanalyzing is my best friend. Or maybe I have a hard time being myself. I glance at the mini, black-rimmed analog clock on the wall and realize I only have five minutes to meet my date at the restaurant. 

***

The sky is already pitch black even though the time says 6:10. I’m ten minutes late, something I will beat myself up about later. My heart is beating fast, not only from rushing into the darkly lit restaurant but because I’m anxious. I’m nervous that I won’t get the opportunity of a second date again. The reoccurring voice in my head of my mother, gnawing at my brain: “You know how much I want grandbabies!” Growing up, my mother always gave me what I wanted; I wanted to return the favor. But what do I want?

Trying to match a dating profile photo to the person in real life is the true definition of finding a needle in a haystack. I already wear glasses because of my nearsightedness, and the restaurant could invest more in lighting and less in palm tree replicas. “Rachel,” I think to myself. Which woman in here looks like a Rachel? Brunette, with eyes to match and pale skin. As I peer at the sea of tables, a woman wearing a red dress stands up, and her smile grasps my attention. I return the gesture and begin walking towards her, trying my best not to let my nerves or the shaking get the best of me. 

“Adam,” her voice as smooth as butter, “it’s nice to “meet” you.” Rachel and I giggle in unison. There was meeting someone online, but then there was meeting someone in person, making everything effervescent. You couldn’t go to the bathroom and ponder the best reply. This is a live performance—any mistake could set your fate in this person’s eyes. As I dance with endless possibilities, my date interjects, “Would you like to sit down?” “Yes,” I respond.

Sitting across from her, I noticed I had forgotten the flowers I picked up for her at my house. Rushing never did me any favors. I grimace through my forgetfulness and ask her, “What do you do for work?”

“I’m a florist.” Maybe leaving the flowers at home was for the best. “Cool phone case,” she points to my phone facing down on the not-so-clean table. It’s clear with a Poké Ball on it. Ash and Pikachu, two of the main characters of the Pokémon franchise, are standing toward the left of it. 

“You like Pokémon?” I gasp. 

“I haven’t been playing since the Pokémon Yellow version for nothing, she winks. There’s something about her energy that is inviting. I realize I feel comfortable; I feel safe. I can droll on about my passions, and she wouldn’t judge. We discuss some of our favorite Pokémon, discuss how Cynthia is one of the best trainers, and share the pain of facing Whitney’s Miltank in generation two. I think I like her. Conversation had never flowed like this before between me and a woman. Parts of me that I repressed were starting to claw their way out. 

“What was growing up for you like,” she asked. Suddenly, my carefree chatter comes to a halt. I spent much of my time playing video games, like Pokémon, and watching other kids play basketball, swim, and ride bikes with their friends. My mother insisted I was shy, but I don’t think it was that. I felt different around other boys, almost uncomfortable. But there was one boy that wanted to be around me. His hair was a lighter shade of mine, his eyes a remarkable sapphire. We would play video games at my house, sitting closer to each other each visit until he kissed me one day. I had never been kissed before until that moment. It was wet and lightly salted from potato chips. A day hasn’t gone by since I thought of that kiss. My mom was in the doorway when it happened. She said my friend had to leave and that he was never welcomed back. I asked why and was met with an inconclusive “because.” I repeat all of this to Rachel.

Her eyes never glance at her phone or at any other patrons. She smiles before asking, “Do you know in Pokémon Red how there are three beginners and so many people recommend picking Charmander? Sure, it’s the Pokémon on the game’s cover and is a great choice, but maybe that’s not what you truly want? Maybe Bulbasaur speaks to you. It’s a tougher road for you in the game, but you have the most fun on your journey picking Bulbasaur. This is the decision that makes you happiest. Do you know what I mean?”

I like Rachel, I really do. But my mother always told me a nice girl would leave me with this special feeling. I finally met that nice girl, a woman, but something was still missing. The potential to love, to become one in an indescribable way. The feeling I had with my friend was intense. I smile back at Rachel, thankful to meet a new friend I could play Pokémon with. We hug and walk our separate ways out of the restaurant. I know I have a long journey in figuring out myself and what I want, but I’m ready.