We set our paper cups of soup down on one of the three circular formica table tops in the tiny staff lunchroom. Most people just use the microwave or coffee pot and go back to their cubes. But Eli and I were each other’s main job benefits, so we try and connect as often as we can. He majored in Forestry and Physics. I majored in German Translation. And here we were, the two youngest employees at a retirement account custodian. Just like with how we both ended up in the UC Davis Marching Band, I like to blame him and he likes to blame me. But we’re only kidding, because neither of us does anything we don’t want to do. Or do we? Hard to say. We’re similar mashups of stubborn and selfish, empathetic and impressionable, which is why it’s unclear who’s to blame that we eat lunch together daily under fluorescent lights.
It’s also why we bicker endlessly like an old married couple on the surface but understand each other’s deep rivers underground, and why we sometimes say less out loud.
I’d just told another glassy-eyed Peter anecdote, maybe something about discovering his intimidating ice queen sister is a plus-sized Ford model, or about the overbearing Dachshund-urine stench in the mom’s pee-pad filled house.
“Sadie.”
Sometimes Eil will just say my name and give me a wide-eyed, pursed-lipped look to fill in the rest.
“Whaaaat?”
And sometimes I’ll just say “what” while stifling a laugh, smothering a shit-eating grin in response
What are we really saying?
Surely, a lot gets lost in translation, but I was pretty sure he was saying:
Girl, you are whooped out of your mind! Your eyes are spinning like hypnotized cartoon characters. It’s like you’ve found God or joined a cult. You’re acting more high on this guy than with American Oscar - the 21-song record breaker - and that didn’t end well. Breathe, Sadie, breathe. Proceed with caution. I’m scared for you.
And my “whaaaaat” was me holding a finger in the dam so my gushing thought-waterfall didn’t drown us both:
Do not be concerned, my friend, this is the one. This is not an American Oscar situation - he was someone else’s one. This is my one. Beyond the fact I’m so physically attracted I can’t see straight, we are sickeningly perfectly matched down to the mole patterns on our skin, the scribbles in our journals, the town we grew up in, the books we read, the movies we love. We both like to study screenwriting and story structure? He sculpts in 3D programs, I sculpt in real life. He knows all the silent films and documentaries I know and more. We both date musicians. We build websites and do nerdy shit like study rubik's cube solve patterns and logic puzzles. He tastes good, smells good, feels like someone I’ve already known forever somehow. There are no doubts, there is no fear; I have found my fucking soul mate.
“Are you bringing him skiing?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Ok. Well, all I can say is, I don’t think you should have sex with him.”
I pause, taking this in.
“Mmmmkay..?”
Normally I share anything with Elijah but this advice catches me off guard and makes me embarrassed to mention that I’d already had sex with Peter the minute he’d left us alone on Beatles night. Also, Eli has never told me to not have sex with someone in my life, so I am suddenly wondering what foreboding knowledge he has. Was he having some kind of premonition? Does Peter have STDs or something?
Just as I am about to ask why, I lose my nerve because I don’t want Eli to say something out loud we’ll both regret, like that Peter is too attractive for me. I’d read all the pop psychology articles that say successful couples rank similarly on the objective attractiveness scale…..like 5s go with 5s, 10s go with 10s.
I feared Eli was implying, you’re a 6 on a good day, and he’s a 10, so the less sex you have with him, the less heartbroken you’ll be when he dumps you in a week. Though that sounds more like my own fears than anything Eli’d ever say, I find myself flushing in shame and defiantly twiddling my plastic spoon in the barley stew thinking, I can fuck a 10 if I want to.
I love Eli though, and he’s like Yoda sometimes, all wise and calm. And while he can spout bullshit like the rest of us, this warning eats its way around my brain like a worm all week. Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it. And I’m thinking, well I already did. And if I already did, does it really matter if I do it again? Or is this an eternal warning? Does “don’t have sex” really mean “don’t date him at all, run like the wind”? Or does it mean “don’t have sex yet, have it next week instead”, or next month? Is it just Eli going old-fashioned sexist dad-mode on me? Is he worried I’m going to tarnish my reputation or turn Peter off by being too ‘easy’? Is this like protective friend shit, dating coach strategy, or like basic slut-shaming? I don’t know and the more I dwell on it, the more I don’t want to know, cuz pretty much all of the options are going to annoy me at this point.