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You give yourself a once over in the mirror. Your hair is particularly fluffy today, frizzy but like in a textured way. It’s starting to get a bit too long for your liking, but that’s okay. Your face… looks the same as it always does. You’re wearing makeup or maybe not. Maybe you should? It doesn’t matter. It’s not like this date is a big deal— that’s what you tell yourself anyways.
The guy seems nice, sure, but you try not to get your hopes up. While a great conversationalist, you’ve yet to even see the guy’s face! His whole Tinder profile is just blurry front-facing-camera landscape photos. On top of that, his “name”, Xenos, sounds… really fake. Honestly, the only reason you agreed to this at all is because a ghost-hunting cemetery date sounds cool as fuck.
You open up Tinder and message to let him know that you’re on your way. If you’re being completely honest, you don’t really know how you matched with Xenos in the first place. The photos are shitty and his bio is kinda cryptic: “Xenos, soft fuzzy man, he/him, bicurious, looking to experiment, not like other guys, make me feel like I exist.” Then again, maybe that’s what pulled you in. You don’t really go on dates and you’re definitely out of this guys league. It’s a good stepping stone. You really don’t expect to fall in love.
You put on your coat and exit your apartment, locking the door behind you. The cemetery is only like a fifteen minute walk from your house, so you shove your hands into your pockets and get to walking. The street lamps, usually dim, crackle dangerously with electricity above you, yet, despite the amplified risk of electrocution, you feel more safe than usual. As you near the cemetery, the late night fog snakes around you like a slighty-creepy but warm hug.
There aren’t any cars in the parking lot, but then again, that makes sense. It’s a small cemetery— not big enough to warrant a security guard, but surely big enough to host a ghost or two. (Are there any cemeteries that don’t have ghosts? It seems unlikely.) There’s a cat sitting on the waist high stone fence; it’s eyes glint dangerously in the radiant darkness. It feels like a warning, but you’re probably just being paranoid.
Hey there, you think— wait, no you didn’t! You turn around, panicked, and there’s nothing there. You could’ve sworn that whisper came from right next to your ear or maybe it was in your head. The fog grips your shoulders like a vice and electricity crackles up your spine. And then you can see him… or, well, you can see what looks like a vaguely-human-shaped cloud of static hovering in the air in front of you; he extends a hand and introduces himself as Xenos, the soft fuzzy man. You think about how that title, “soft fuzzy man”, sounds like it could be a euphemism, but you decide not to mention it. When you go to shake his hand, your hand phases straight through his with a soft buzz and your hand is assaulted by a weird tingling sensation. Maybe “soft fuzzy man” is an accurate title after all.
I’m not what you expected… he says, or rather, thinks, you suppose. His mouth doesn’t move, but his hands do, signing the words as they’re planted into your head. It’s confusing to differentiate between his words and your own thoughts. The sensation is strangely hypnotizing but also super headache-y.
The soft fuzzy man jitters like a radio wave in the air with anxiety and you give him a once over. Yeah, he’s definitely not what you expected, but not in a bad way. You hate to say it, but his bio was accurate— he’s not like other guys, at least not any other guys you’ve met before. He gives you an awkward smile; his mouth spiraling off the ends of his face like a galaxy. His eyes glitter in the moonlight. Okay, yeah, you’ve got it bad for the soft fuzzy man.
“Yeah, you’re not what I expected,” you say, “but that’s okay.” And his face lights up like a too-bright streetlamp. Don’t think about it too hard. I’m not human, Xenos clarifies and you laugh. “Yeah, I can tell.” That fact isn’t a turn on, but it’s also definitely not a turn off. “I’m still down for this date if you are?” You say and hold up your phone to show him the EMF tracker app that you downloaded for the occasion. You’ve got one that acts like a spirit box too, but you’re not sure how hardcore this guy is about the whole ghost hunting thing.
Of course, Xenos says and his purple-ish pink-ish aura sparkles around you. He holds out his hand again and you accept it gladly (you don’t hold it so much as you slide your own hand into it like a glove). The tingly sensation from earlier curls itself up your wrist and you walk into the cemetery together. As you glance back, the entrance to the cemetery is engulfed in radiant fog. The cat follows.
“So, what are you?” You wonder briefly if that was a rude question, but it’s a moot point. You’re pretty sure the species of your date shouldn’t be a secret!
A collection of gases cursed to form the shape of a man, a shimmering puff of indistinct love, the lingering threat of carbon monoxide poisoning, the sentient embodiment of a hot box?
The soft fuzzy man looks over at you as you think about his answer. Your only real thought is ‘what the fuck?’ You’ve really got nothing to say.
Take your pick, he continues, I usually just stick with soft fuzzy man.
You wonder briefly if “soft fuzzy man” would be classified as a species or an element, but honestly does it matter? You also begin to wonder if the woozy feeling penetrating your skull is a symptom of love or carbon monoxide poisoning. That one matters a lot more, but like, who cares?
“That’s cool,” is all you say as Xenos leads you further into the cemetery. He stops you in the middle of the graveyard, just as you’re about to trip over a fog-obscured tombstone. The cemetery is almost like a maze with how much fog clouds your vision. You pull up the app on your phone and immediately the EMF reading is off the charts.
“That’s weird,” you say, not making the very obvious connection. You gently knock your phone with the heel of your hand but the signal doesn’t fade. You’re about to start trouble shooting when you hear the soft fuzzy man’s laughter.
I’m made of EMF. Oh yeah, that makes sense.
“Oh, uh, wait,” you say and pull up the other app. “What about a spirit box?”
I can manipulate them, he says, hands moving quickly through the fog, but it is not involuntary. You nod and turn it on, cringing against the obnoxious noise. The fog thickens considerably— the noise bothers Xenos too.
You and Xenos take turns asking questions. Well… you ask the questions, and Xenos tells you what to say through telekinesis or mind-melding or whatever-the-fuck. It’s a little bit frustrating— for you because there’s no response and for him because nothing about ghost hunting is accessible for those with mutism. You wonder why he suggested a ghost hunting date. He must have seen this coming.
Jeez, this is lame, he says. You probably would’ve been annoyed by the statement if he wasn’t correct. You expected more ghostly activity! It’s a cemetery for fucks sake!
“Yeah, it kinda is,” you agree. “It was a good idea though!”
I know, I thought you would enjoy it. The soft fuzzy man seems a little bummed out by your disappointment. He picked this date for you! The fog gradually disperses a little bit as Xenos takes a seat on one of the tombstones. His hair, a mass of static and noxious gases, swoops behind him perfectly. He’s got that same meek grin on his face from earlier. He looks super kissable, so you’re not really surprised by what he says next: Ghost hunting was a bust, but we can still make the most of this situation…
Ok, yeah, the way he said it sounds creepy as shit, but you’re kinda into it. You step into his mist, finding his face with your hands. The fog is dense but his eyes are glowing a hypnotizing yellow. You gaze into them as his voice fills your skull like a pounding headache.
I can kiss you?
You nod; you’re excited but also a little wary of breathing any more than you really have to. The smell is sickeningly sweet and probably deadly. You’re reluctant to suggest that maybe the kiss is also sweeter because of it, but you won’t be the first to pull away.
So, yeah, this definitely isn’t how you expected this night to end, but you’re definitely not complaining. You’re making out with a sentient cloud of sexy gas on top of a tombstone for fucks sake! Could it get any better than this?