April 5, 2022

Untitled. First Date Meditation. #1
- Tori Ashley Matos

The night before a date, I think about which person I’ll drag out of the closet—don’t laugh—and introduce to tomorrow night’s first kiss. Is it the leopard bodysuit and black heels? Should she throw on a leather blazer or is that just fishing? Is Joy Division and an as yet undecided jean more of a third date kind of nonchalance? Is it the kind of outfit you discuss your anxiety in? Do you discuss anxiety at a bar? Everything about dating is ineloquent and unoriginal, but writers somehow still write.

I’ve checked the weather. It’s supposed to rain. A strappy satin sandal at a 50 degree angle from the body, on the corner of 42nd and 10th at 11pm, under a drizzle that lays just so on a cheek or a lip, just before he puts me—gently, chivalrously—in a taxi is an enticing vignette, but the satin. And maybe that’s really all this is, anyway. A series of daydreams: tableaus and disappointments. I mean, its a first date on a Wednesday for fuck’s sake.  I’ll likely splash into an nondescript Uber in boots too big for me and that’ll be another person I’ll shove back onto a hanger with a bad name. Didn’t work, address in post.

There’s nothing stopping tomorrow from making magic. Fuck what you heard, but it can happen. You can let a boy who’s taller than you with a delicious mouthful of a name chase you up a flight of stairs to see Washington Square Park from above. You can let him take you home, stumble his way on top of you, and hear him thank you for the ways your eyes are maybe the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. You can remember, in detail, the first time a man called you beautiful in his bed. When you’ve only ever been 20 and hot, you feel finally like a woman.

So, I hold out a little corner of me for hope. Nothing too crazy. Just a morsel of maybe. Right next to my fear of murder and rape. Somewhere adjacent to just normal, endearing embarrassment at existing in a body. Just underneath a trembling, searing certainty in my own youth—full lips, wet pussy, and eyes that look good from above and below. It might not be love. It usually never is. But daydreams and disappointments can make you fall a little bit closer until you just fucking trip. And there it is.