Sometimes walking down the path feels like slow motion. You see a shape across the way and something deep inside of you cries, "Run!" It's him; it's her; the one you know quite well - and don't know at all. For five hours, or six, or 12, you tangled. His watch was on your desk; her skirt was on your floor; in the morning his face was covered with your mascara and she was wearing your high school track tee. When the sun was down, they were the only ones in the world, but now the path is packed. He passes The Loop, she hits the arch, their eyes catch. Her hand dives into her Herve bag, as if she wants those fake Gucci glasses. He's suddenly interested in the Freewater banner, like Harry Potter is really important. Ten inches away, she surrenders.
"Hi," she says.
He walks on by.
The one-night stand-off ends, and he has won.
"It sucks!" she growls later. We're in kickboxing class, and she's ready to eat your children. "I don't want to be his girlfriend!" Her fist jabs the air. "I just want some acknowledgement. He was cool. We had a good time." She kicks, imagining her target is his groin. "Why can't he be normal?"
I tried to focus on my crunches, but the question wouldn't leave. How can you know someone Biblically, but not know enough to say hi the next day?
"That's not fair," countered a frat boy at Rick's. "Girls are just as weird about one-nighters as guys, only you can play the victim afterwards! What if we say 'hi', and you think we're stalkers?" I glare. "If you've seen my bikini wax," I say, "I trust you're not a stalker." He peels off his Ohio State sweatshirt and grins.
"Okay," he levels. "When a guy hooks up with a girl, he needs a grace period. A little time to ignore her so she doesn't get the wrong idea." I smile. What idea is that? "We don't want her to think it's going to turn into something," he admits.
Hilarious. I put my head in my hands. "Listen," I plead. "We usually don't want a relationship either. If we do, we wait for you to call. Or IM. Or show up with whipped cream at our door." He laughs. I continue. "Sure, sometimes we want one night to become more. But 'hello' isn't a marriage proposal. It's saying you're not embarrassed. It means you had a good time, and that we didn't look fat in our Furla thong. It means..." I say, staring him down, "That we're human. Just like you."
A week later, we're kickboxing again. "So," she smiles, "He said hi." She whips the air with her fists, and laughs. "I feel so stupid. I mean, it's not like I care." I punch the sky, and shrug. It's okay to care, if not about the person then about the act. Obviously, one night on a futon doesn't make you a fiance. But it does make you responsible, at least a little bit, for someone else's feelings.
"So he said hi," I repeated between squats. "What did you do?"
"I said hello back." She sighs. "I know it's trivial. But it's important to me. I mean, it isn't wrong to enjoy hooking up. I don't think your sex life defines your worth," she explains between kicks. "But to make someone else feel worthless? That makes you trash. You know?"
I nod. I do.
She strikes the air with one last hit, then throws in the towel, exhausted.
Get The Chronicle straight to your inbox
Signup for our weekly newsletter. Cancel at any time.