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I think it all started with a passing idea.
It was Halloween and we were all set to have what you’d labeled as ‘regulated non-sexual but alcoholic fun,’ dressed in the ridiculous Superbowl Sharks couple costumes you’d bought for us—the “meme is fresh and everyone would think we’re awesome,” you said. Except we were stood up by all of our friends for some weird ritualistic orgy and, in a completely not unexpected turn of events, we were mistaken for sharks from that Sharknado film that became popular a while back. Nevertheless, because you are Clarke and you are forever determined to follow through every single plan you have, I had no choice but to accompany you in your ‘Halloween Superslam Barcrawl Dash’ to make sure that you don’t do anything stupid while you’re drunk. Like dance on top of bar counters or unknowingly get high on those Magic brownies from some random hippies—you’d take anything edible if it’s free, even those stale nacho chips that grocery personnel give away as samples in the weekend market.
Ridiculous costumes aside, the night started off pretty normally for us. I’ve known you for 8 years and we’ve been best friends for 5 years; I’ve been your bar buddy for more times than I can actually remember, I’ve held your hair away from your face as you puked and I’ve seen you in all your drunken glory. Suffice to say, I’ve seen you at your best and at your worst.
We were 3 bars deep into your barcrawl and I don’t know if I was imagining things, but our usual snarky banter starts to become flirting, our taunting turns to teasing. And somewhere in between your eight shot of jaegerbomb and the fifth time my hand brushes against the smooth skin of your arm, an idea starts to plant itself into my head—I wanted to kiss you. This idea swiftly turns into an urge and then I find myself wanting to see what else I can do with you. Like opening a floodgate that we never knew existed.
Just like that, I see a realm of possibilities where there’s only one thing constant for me—you.