Whatever That Was

Every once in a while I find myself missing Shindig.
And every once in a while I laugh—remembering the cruelties I’d slip in so casually—still, wondering where his standoffishness stemmed from.

I never had high expectations for this guy, considering we had met last October in his apartment at 12:30 a.m. on a random weeknight before hooking up with his roommate (which is a story in and of itself). I think the lack of shock by his stories stemmed from two truths—one: I knew who he was based upon the context of our relationship and two: he was simply so awkward that I couldn’t ever believe he got any action. In fact, that’s one of the first things I told him when we spoke.

“You’re so awkward.”
“Chill bro,” he said, looking down with both hands tightly grabbing the straps of his backpack. “We just met.”

I find it hard to believe that I was able to shape him into whatever kind of person I crafted in my head when I look back at it.

Often, after sex, he would insist we shower together. It was strange for me, fresh out of a three-year relationship and one not-so-pleasant exploration of a woman. I wasn’t sure what the norms for things like this were. I just knew: Don’t. Get. Attached. So I kept my distance—listened more than I spoke, and even then, most of my insight was provided through nods of the head and taut smiles.

It might have been my way of feeling in control, but oh, was I spiraling.

Anyway—he developed a ritual for our meetings.

Fuck. Shower. Talk. Kiss goodbye for a week.

His Talks in the Shower

I’ve learned a lot about him through these shower talks. Or, more about his many pursuits of women. I believe the first time we met, Shindig told me about the time he got stood up for his fraternity formal. He was devastated, he told me, but mostly because he had let her “and her fat friends” drink all of his alcohol before a night out, and he felt stiffed when she left without a sexual transaction.

There was another instance in which he told me about his experience nearly crying over a girl. It was February—that Saturday morning leaking from the late-night adventures of Friday night. February 15, 12 a.m. He showed up to my door with a rose in his mouth.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Shawty.”

Anyway, he told me about a girl he had over just hours prior. His big romantic gesture on Valentine’s Day was DoorDash’d Taco Bell that got stolen in the apartment lobby. Overall, the bedroom “date” tanked, and he was crushed.

“I just stared at the ceiling and fought back tears.”

I was intrigued by his openness. I never really dipped my toes in the dating pool, so this was the last thing I expected. From what I knew, I was supposed to be in and out without a peep. Well, some peeps allowed.

He looked back at me, towel around his waist, and laughed. “That’s probably an ick, right?”

And in my post-party, substance-fueled mind, I smiled and did the most shameful thing I could have done as a woman. I said, “No, you’re just in tune with your emotions.” Oh, shut UP!

“I only really did all that because I’d feel bad hooking up with her… because she’s a virgin—you know?”

Writing it now, I see the burning red flags, but with alcohol coursing through my veins and my sheer inability to believe he was capable of speaking to women, it all seemed make-believe.

Maybe it was moments like those that led me to spurting out the things I said while standing in the mirror pre- and post-shower. I’d often catch him glancing at himself while we spoke. And more often than not, those glances slowly morphed into a not-so-subtle Shindig Self Check Out. His eyes would trail off from my direction, and more towards his ant bite of a bicep in the mirror.

Subconsciously, I was reminded of the absurdities he said about those girls in the shower, and the spirit of girlhood took over.

I glanced at his manhood, then locked eyes with him in the mirror and chuckled, “Who told you that was big?”

He tried to play it off, but he was visibly flustered. “Lots of people.”

Where I’m at Now

I learned a lot about that boy in just three hours, so I’d like to imagine that I grew to know him exponentially more over the course of the following weeks we saw each other. And then in fragmented connections in the months after.

Such small and insignificant moments to him created a snowball of confusion for me.

I know a part of me misses the thrill that came along with Shindig—the hiding, the stories, the sex—but I mostly miss me.

I miss the girl I was before it all began.
I miss the friends I had and the hobbies I spent hours of my life perfecting.

I miss it all so much that I feel it in the air all the time, and I realize I’m stuck. I haven’t left the past, and there’s nobody else there to comfort me.

It’s just me, myself, and the endless loop of memories that haunt me.