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You are all curves and bent lines from the curl of your hair to the patterns in your pants. She is the epitome of everything you’ve ever stayed away from, straight lines and rules. Emphasis on the straight. But for some reason you can’t help think about what she would look like melted into your sheets. You want to make her say ‘fuck’ more than anything else. You’re sure she could make the crass word sound like poetry.
But she pines over the idiot receptionist and twirls her hair and stutters so perfectly, you feel like for once, something is making you go boom. You’re good at explosions; good at setting fires and then putting them out again. But for some reason you never want to put out the fire she’s lit in you.
You work overtime, making machines that you think will please her: an alarm clock that wakes her to the smell of her favorite tea, and even you built her a goddamn shoe polish when she complained her favorite shoes were too scuffed to wear. As Patti likes to tell you, ‘you got it bad, baby’. So you tell her, because you’ve never been one to beat around the bush and you know how to make girls melt, yes, even straight girls.
When you kiss her, her body wraps itself around you making certain to fill every crack and crevice. Her tongue explores every millimeter of your mouth and you think maybe this is what Watson felt like when he discovered the structure of DNA. You want to spend forever in this moment but she runs. She pulls away and runs down the stairs.
Abby and Patty assure you that you did nothing wrong but you feel like you’re thirteen again and the girl you thought was the one is calling you a dyke.
Hypothesis: true love doesn’t exist for people like you.
So you let her go, you let her stay away for two days until you finally give in and show up at her doorstep in tears. You repeat ‘I’m sorry’ over and over until your tongue feels numb and you think this is it. This is where you’ve fucked up one of the only good things that’s ever happened to you. Why can’t you just be normal for once in your fucking life.
She stands at the door watching you in a large t shirt and she has, that look on her face, the one she makes when she doesn’t quite understand why you’re dancing or winking. She takes you by the arm and pulls you into her sad looking apartment with it’s white everything. Jesus, Gilbert, you almost tell her, would it kill you to have like, an orange throw or something. But you don’t because right now is when she tells you she never wants to see you again.
But she doesn’t tell you that. She smashes her mouth to yours and pulls at your shirt and suddenly you’re in her bed. She says fuck and you were right, it sounds like goddamn poetry. You want to record it and listen to it for hours.
“You, confuse me.” you tell her when her arms are wrapped around your waist and her face is smushed against your neck. She laughs and her breath tickles but you just furrow your brow, “what?”
“Don’t you see, Jillian?” she laughs some more and it is glorious, “I think you’ve turned me gay. Or at least helped me realize I wasn’t straight.” Suddenly you are both laughing and everything seems as it should be.
Conclusion: Hypothesis Incorrect