It was two days before I left for a semester in London. I was sitting on the couch in my basement, drinking a glass of red wine and watching re-runs of sitcoms from the 90’s. I had been trying to check my phone less recently, but, in this moment, I couldn’t fight the urge; I needed to see if he was online. I opened Instagram and clicked on his profile. A small green dot signified his online presence. I smiled. It was 4 am his time which meant he had either woken up to use the restroom or he was returning from a night out with friends. I sent him a picture of the wine glass in my hand. It wasn’t a good picture, simply dark and blurry since the television screen was the only source of light near me. A vibration notified his response. It was probably something witty or sarcastic like “don’t go too crazy tonight” or “you better watch that drink.” He’s good at showcasing his sense of humor in only a few words. I’ve typed “LOL” to him an excessive amount of times. But it’s true. His short, charming messages make me smile and laugh. The best is when he sends me voice messages so that I can hear his surroundings, car horns and wind. I picture him walking through the city, holding his phone up to his mouth, and singing whatever song happens to be stuck in his head. When I press play my mouth flattens into a thick red grin. Sometimes I draft messages to him, saying how grateful I am for our friendship and how I wish, more than anything, that our lives occurred in the same time zone. The same country. I never send these messages, but I should.
After exchanging a string of sarcastic messages related to my wine consumption, he asked me something serious. I like how he prefaces his inquiries with deliberate phrases like “May I” and “I’ve been curious about you,” being careful not to overstep. He respects my privacy, but I am willing to share.
“You must get attention at school, going out, etc. Are you not interested? What are you looking for?” His question both flattered and floored me. I had been on a few dates here and there, but I had always been apprehensive to talk about them with him. Slowly, and with much concentration, I typed a thorough message. To the question of what I am looking for, I told him that I want to feel chosen. It is a truth to my womanhood that I cannot deny. I want to feel pursued. I ended the message with, “If something sticks, it sticks and nothing has.” I considered adding “except you” at the end but I ended up deleting those two words.
He confirmed to having been a few dates as well, indulging on the importance of a woman’s voice. I imagined him sitting with a tan woman, from work or in passing, eating pasta in a romantically lit restaurant and drinking Aperol Spritz’s and laughing at how irresistible it all is. Of course, I didn’t let on that I was a bit jealous. How could I be? We are not dating. We have never defined our relationship or gone exclusive. It seems strange to do any of this when your friendship relies on a sturdy wifi signal.
We began talking about long distance relationships. The how’s and why’s. The complexities and anxieties. He seemed to be admitting that a relationship with me would be too hard. And I have to agree. I began to feel discouraged and uncomfortable as if I could feel the process of losing him begin. I assume that this is what it feels like to lose something that isn’t even yours to misplace.
“I like you, there’s no denying that,” he typed. “I like you too.”
Then we got married. Not legally or religiously or course, but I enjoyed how natural and light it was to send pretend vows and gifs of rings to each other as a means of matrimony. That huge fat grin filled up my face. The corners of my mouth pushed up into my cheeks harder than anytime before.
“I’m going to bed a married man,” he sent.
“Goodnight husband,” I replied.