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I had promised myself I wasn’t going to do this. Not here, not with a local girl, not before I leave the country… Yet here I am, nearly 36 years old, and about to go on a blind date. A blind date; as in, I have to be blind to believe that I’m going to meet a potential friend. It’s one thing telling her that I’m volunteering to be her mentor, because I’ve been her, I’ve been the twenty-something closeted gay girl who doesn’t know what to do with herself. But trying to convince myself that I have no ulterior motive, that I’m not hoping this Clarke person will be hot and smart and nice and into cats, is outright delusional. What am I hoping to accomplish? This young woman (if she really is one; I’ve had my fair share of fake dating profiles!) is lost and in need of guidance. She might look to me to convince her she’s not gay. Even if, by some miracle, we simply click right away, we wouldn’t be setting off into the sunset. She isn’t ready to be with me; and I’m not ready to let her. Then it hits me: I haven’t been out on a date for almost 3 years, not since Costia. And we all know how well that went! I check the clock: almost 5 p.m. Either come up with a last-minute excuse and cancel, or be on your way already Lexa, you know you’d hate yourself if you were late to an appointment. Appointment? I’m not going to the dentist, I’m going out on a freaking date! At this rate, I’m heading straight for an anxiety attack. Thankfully, my body has a mind of its own. Before I realise that I made up my mind, my right hand is picking up the car keys, while my right hand grabs my phone. Knowing that I will have to get to the restaurant before Clarke, just to make sure it’s not a trap set by some sadistic homophobes who are waiting to beat me to death, my feet spring into action, carrying me through the block separating my car from my apartment. As my fingers turn the ignition on, I get the very distinctive feeling that what I’m doing is wrong, ridiculous, sinful. In that split second, I am that scared teenager again, who just realised she wants to kiss her best friend and is sure she will go to hell for that mere thought. I don’t let this sickening walk down memory lane last though, even though I have experienced this kind of shame long enough for it to become a reflex. My mind will always go there, to that dark place where I am worthless and weak, but it doesn’t linger there anymore. It slides through the pain and rejection of the past, right to a present where I have accepted myself, refusing to let anything or anyone make me feel dirty because of my sexuality. I shake my head and step on the gas. I am equal parts excited, hopeful and apprehensive. I feel nauseous throughout the short ride to the well-hidden restaurant I picked; to make her feel secure, or to satisfy an age-old need to hide. Luckily, traffic is light in the capital on this Sunday afternoon, so 8 minutes later, I am seated at the most secluded table, which should give me enough time to order something so as not to look like I’m waiting for someone; and to pay for it, in case I need to make a swift exit. With all my affairs in order, I can finally relax; except that I don’t. Instead, my now free mind immediately starts laying out apocalyptic scenarios for me. One scenario it wasn’t prepared for though? Almost getting hit by a flying tray. At least I hope it was a tray and not a flying saucer. It takes me a second to process what had transpired, but then I look in the direction the object came from and see a blonde mane on legs profusely apologising to the waiter whose tray just flew by my head. Clumsy girl. But not just any clumsy girl; she was there for me. She came into my life like she came in that restaurant. And I should have known right then and there that I would be in for a world of trouble.