I’m Malachi, I’m twenty-nine and I’m from Liverpool, born and bred. That phrase always makes me laugh – I used to think it meant like baked, like a loaf of bread… Oh no, I can’t bake. But I’d learn if Whit asked me to.[laughs]I know, I’m so down bad it’s pathetic. I don’t even care what she looks like, her energy is just… Oh yeah, but you know surgeons are all jocks, so she’ll probably have me doing parkruns and eating my macros. I don’t mind. I’d do anything for her.
I managed to stay annoyed at Dolly for about half a day, right up until she walked over as un-glam as possible in her exercise clothes. It was like I saw a bit of the real Dolly, the home Dolly when she’s not filming.
I have to believe her when she said she was looking out for me. I heard she went to talk to production about Whit’s horrible dates, after all. Maybe she’s just a very involved friend. I’m unused to that.
I’m always reading things wrong. I can add it to a list as long as the Trans–Siberian Railway.
I think, if I’m honest, I’m a bit intimidated by her. When she’s around, I just want to listen to her. Even impress her.
It’s lunchtime, on my second day of too many second datesdue to my over-X-ing – a totally new form of self-sabotage, I think.
I’m starting to feel really burned out again and kind of demoralised. I came here precisely to give up on men who I didn’t have any connection with, and yet, by choice (or, if I’m honest with myself, like twelve per cent spite, at least), I ended up spending hours with the very same men I left the apps to avoid. Am I just doomed to repeat the same cycle, even here? I love routines, but this seems a bit on the nose.
Maybe I should have kept my eyes on my own page and just picked Patrick like I wanted to originally.
Lina finds me curled up in the corner of the living room. ‘You’re going to crease your dress,’ she says, untucking the length of it around my legs. My bare skin misses the gentle touch of the fabric, goosepimpling under the air conditioning, but she is right, and then I’d have to iron the dress, which I truly do not have any energy for. ‘And probably over-stretch your hip flexors if you stay like that.’
‘Sorry,’ I say, not quite sure why I’m apologising when she’s not my Pilates teacher. I wriggle out of my compressed depressed pretzel into a slightly more socially acceptable way of sitting. ‘Thank you.’
She gives me a warm smile. ‘We’ve got to look after each other.’
‘How have your dates been today?’ My voice is croaky from overuse.
‘It’s been interesting,’ she says, very diplomatically. ‘But I think I’ve narrowed it down to three men.’ She hesitates. ‘I’m not sure if you are comfortable with talking names?’
‘No, it’s alright,’ I say, unsure how I’m feeling in truth. I’ll know in a couple of days’ time when it’s finally been processed. ‘Tell me.’
‘I think I’m going to ask to take Billy, Cobey and Zack forthe dates where we see each other.’ I get the sense she’s looking at me for reactions to the names, but I’m so tired all I can do is keep my enthusiastic smile static.
‘Oh, Cobey is so nice.’ I am pretty sure Billy is the man who talked about teeth, and Zack seems to have slipped my mind entirely. ‘Can you surf? I feel like a life with Cobey involves a lot of surfing.’
‘No, but Pilates means I have a good core. I think I could manage it,’ she says, entirely seriously. I cannot imagine being so certain about your own capacity.
I tell her in turn about Patrick. ‘He’s really the only man I’m interested in pursuing, I think.’
‘Yes, you have similar energies,’ she says sagely. ‘That’s important. Relating to each other not only emotionally, but cosmically.’
Even though I’m not quite sure what she means by cosmically, my mind slips to her proclamation the other day that the gender of her partner is not that important. For some reason, it’s been playing in my head, over and over, ever since. That happens sometimes with phrases. My brain sets up its own little radio station that only plays that song.
But then, when I do think about it, my skin feels tight, or like it’s about to vibrate off my bones.
I think one of the hardest parts of being autistic is that my processing is off by a few days, and while my nervous system might be able to react and sayoh this is Good or Bad, I won’t really know what thatmeansfor a whole other day.
And this feeling doesn’t feel Bad or Good, so I’m just stuck with it. I know that, really, I just need to ask her about it.
‘Lina,’ I begin, trying to gain control over the wobble in my voice. My palms feel sweaty. ‘What… I mean…’
She takes my hands in hers, which doesn’t entirely help because I’m just worried about sweating all over her. ‘Talk to me,’ she says, lowering her lovely lilting voice.
It’s Lina, I tell myself. She’s nice and calm and thoughtful. If I’m going to ask anyone, maybe she’s the right person.
‘The other day when we were talking about… who we date. You said—’ I have to stop to clear my throat, and I’m so nervous that I forget to restart my sentence.
The gap widens too long, and I’m so grateful when Lina fills it. ‘Oh, about not really caring about their gender?’ Her dark eyes are curious. ‘Is that what you were thinking about?’
‘Yes,’ I say slowly.
‘What do you want to know?’
