“I’d like to do this again sometime, if you are willing,” he texts.
“I’m still here.” Again, the truth stings.
“In the meantime, would you be willing to receive another task from me? Another adventure?”
“I would love that.”
“I’ll send you a GoodWord soon.”
“I look forward to it.” I stare at my phone, breathing, “Thank you for my adventures.”
“It’s my pleasure. Goodnight, William. You can put your shoes back on now!”
I chuckle in spite of myself. “Goodnight, M.”
The words freeze on my screen and I don’t want to put down my phone, knowing that to look away means to face everything I’ve just learned about him. And myself.
I meet Martin for a game of pickleball Thursday after work. He must be dealing with something at work because he seems a little preoccupied, or maybe it’s just that we’ve had to wait a little for the court. Regardless, something is up. I actually beat him by two points in the last game, which is the biggest litmus test because he’s better all-around at every sport than me. It’s still a good workout and we have a good time.
Gathering our things and packing up our gear, we head to my truck, catching our breath, still sweating despite the cooling weather.
After getting in the passenger seat, he sighs a deep sigh, stows his stuff in the footwell and finally breaks the ongoing silence: “I’ve been meaning to ask: How was your digital date? With your secret person.”
“It was good,” I discover I’m saying flatly, then correcting, “It was good!”
He looks at me funny, “How are you feeling about it?”
I pause for a minute and glance over at him quickly, as I drive out of the parking lot.
“Good. Comfortable,” I sigh. “Which surprises me.”
“How so?”
“Turns out, he’s a guy.” I wait for something to shift inside, but it doesn’t. I really want there to be some reaction on Martin’s face, but there’s nothing.
“How do you know he’s a guy?” Martin is asking. “Are you sure?”
“Do you know which urinal you should choose in the men’s restroom?” I quip.
Martin nods his head, his eyes saying “of course.”
“He’s a guy, Martin.”
In my peripheral vision, I see Martin’s eyes shifting, searching for something in his brain maybe. He looks at me like he’s trying to say something, I see his breath quicken, but he has no words.
“I keep trying to find the part where it changes everything,” I say.
The stoplight stays red longer than it should. A pedestrian crosses in front of us.
“And…” he says slowly, not looking at me.
“I can’t.” I keep my eyes on the road, cars and lights passing. “I think it should feel different, but it doesn’t.”
“Different from what?”
I take a quick glance at him. “From you,” I say.
The back of my neck grows warm, and I wipe it with my fingertips, but it doesn’t help. My brain has changed languages, apparently, and I can’t summon words. “It feels like how I already talk with you.”
