Eight has a way of letting you into his life with one fraction of a tiny detail at a time, but only if and when he was good and ready. Asking him questions generally made him back off entirely – so I learned to let him come to me. Why does he get the destiny theme in the titles? Honestly because I think he might actually be the boy version of me. But the few differences between us made all the difference in the world. The things I learned about eight, as I said, came slowly and at his pace; they all reminded me a lot of myself. He’s very close with his family, especially his mom; same. Our extended families are from up north; same town. Virgos; same. (Rest assured I sort of knew this was doomed from the start, imagine 2 Virgos, yikes.) He holds himself to a very high standard; same, sometimes too high. He seems to genuinely enjoy being around kids, especially sports mentoring; same. The people in his life love him fiercely; same, they will cut you if you hurt me. He’s unabashedly prone to singing and dancing anytime, any place; same, this is the one thing I can’t shake about him. And he is probably one of the most polite-on-paper people I’ve ever met, eight will find a way come hell or high water to fit ‘thank you’ into every conversation multiple times; same, thank you very much. Those qualities are all fine and dandy but, and this is a big but, he seemed to lack motivation, which, if you’ve been a bachelor forever, is sort of counter intuitive to dating. Like I said, eight has taught me that potential is meaningless without forward momentum.
The frequency and quality of the communication with eight had taken off the week leading up to my birthday, which fell on the Saturday. My Wednesday was busy as heck, eight had texted me to say he was going to his usual wing night with friends that night; it was the hot spot for our high school, I guess they never grew out of it. I never knew if this was his way of saying don’t text him, or do text him, or show up at the pub; but I always settled in my mind on, “uh I only care about where you end up if you outright ask me to join you, otherwise, have fun I guess.” I received a Thursday afternoon text from eight, telling me about his wing night leftovers for lunch (yes, really, thank you for the update eight). I was still be-bopping all over my schedule, generally crushing goals like a champ, and I knew he had a game that night in town, and since I’m a busy lady, I hit him back with the one-two punch because, carpe
diem dat ass:
“I’m coming to see your butt tonight I think.” – Me, a demure desirable lady.
Fortune favours the brave – and destiny, well destiny will send you a cute tush if you just tell it you’re coming to see it. “Oh nice, I’ll wear my extra tight pants then” he replies. Dead. Swoon. Wait, was this what he was waiting for? Me to just show up. I didn’t text him back for the rest of the day knowing that the text silence ensured neither of us said anything to kill the flurt vibe that took what feels like forever to figure out.
I went to the game that night looking adorably incognito in the white-girl-at-sporting event uniform: a white tee, plaid shirt, ripped jeans, and cap. I arrived as the anthem started, grabbed a Caesar and took my seat closer to the opposing team among a group of white haired old men who know nothing about sports – my favourite kind of spectators, for real. It only took a second, and I then I saw him. It felt like a big deal at the time, frankly well past “long overdue”, it was bordering on asinine at this point. He was crouching by the team bench in his tightest pants; he has the meatiest butt and the thickest thighs (and I think I loved him). No I’m being stupid. None the less, very quickly I realised just how adorable he really is (do guys hate being called adorable, because too bad, bitches, some of you just are adorable mkay). He’s just a little taller than me and he’s thick the way I like dudes, with one of those crazy dark working tans that make men look like they’ve rubbed dirt on their arms. It’s evident he’s well loved by his teammates as their faces light up when they talk to him, slapping him on the back energetically. But the best part about finally seeing him? I knew, without hesitation, he was looking for me. I sat there, across a field, watching him scanning over the crowd, over and over and over again; he wasn’t even being discreet about it. There was something voyeuristic about the whole “I can see him, but he can’t see me” thing – it was exciting and also weirdly embarrassing too, like the two of us had a secret the other thousand people there didn’t know. Spoiler alert, the secret is that we’re idiots and this thing between us is never going to work out the way either of us wants it to. Don’t hold your breath though, I stayed undercover for the duration of the game, that night, he didn’t know if I was there or not, and I preferred it that way. The ironic part about him not seeing me was that where I was seated was directly in his eye line for most of the game. Like the depth of field for a camera lens, I was sitting in the middle of his field of vision, but I would’ve been out of focus if he had his eye on the plays, so there I was, able to look straight at his face, unseen, it was surreal.
The other swoon-worthy thing (apart from his butt) is, whenever the music comes on between plays, he dances, and not like a little; he slaps the sides of his fist against his thighs and tosses his head back and forth. He feels music, and it reminds me of me. I send my closest girlfriends from highschool a video of him dancing – they’ve told me a hundred times to drop eight like a hot potato, but they still send heart eyes back to not kill my vibe. “Does he know you’re there?” they ask. “Not for sure I don’t think.” The combination of the intensity of the game and my lusty bologna made my stomach butterfly city. They didn’t win the game, but it was the kind where it was so well played by both sides you can’t even be mad about it for a second. I was full blown shivering from the night air by the end of the game, so I hightailed it out of there faster than you can say “bye bitch”; he wouldn’t have had a chance to spot me making my way down the stairs.
I went home and threw on some jogging pants and began rolling myself a joint in my futile attempt to try and warm myself back up from being so cold for so long. Ding, my phone goes off and I see his name light up my screen, well that didn’t take long. “Didn’t see you at the game tonight. Where were you sitting?” he says. I tell him roughly where. “Fuck off. For serious?” I replied with a cool “Yes.” (So cool.) He was sitting in an uptown pub with the team drinking beers, as is their tradition, and yet surprisingly, this ended up being one of those texting conversations where both people are just super present. It’s less than a minute between each message and every text is short rapid fire. He seems disappointed he didn’t see me and says “I’m slipping, I normally see everyone.” I tell him that his dancing is my “like my favourite thing ever”. We talk a bit about his game: his best plays and the moments that rattled my chill. He told me about one of the opposing players previous temper tantrums. I told him I liked his pants, he thanked me but said I probably liked lots of pants that I saw (take the compliment jeez). I reiterated that dancing pants are the most distracting. We got onto the topic of our high school, what I was like back then, I tell him I’ve never been in any major trouble with the law or authority, mostly low-key. He tells me I should live a little and I tell him that I do, and to “try me”. He tells me he was suspended twice for smoking weed on school trips (be still my heart) and I remark that there are things that are fun to get caught doing, smoking weed isn’t one of them. I send him a picture of the joint I’m smoking on my porch, he sends me a photo of the beer he’s drinking. It’s just after midnight, now a Friday morning and he tells me “You should sleep you probably work in the morning.” I tell him I don’t, and he tells me that he doesn’t either. I take the opportunity to tell him that my birthday is Saturday, and that my work gives us the closest weekday off before quickly changing the topic. I ask him what sports he’ll play in the next season and he tells me – but that doesn’t last long because he watches the emoji stamped panoramic video of the sports complex that I had posted to my Snapchat story while I was at the game. “I just saw your story. I can’t believe I didn’t see you there. I’m shocked and pissed.”
Now, the following exchange is as sweet as it gets between eight and I – from now until the end. It’s this conversation that let me know that when he wants to, eight is capable of making a risky move to see a girl he likes. The other edge of this sword though is, of course, that once I know a man can be this motivated to get to me and he chooses not to, I move on. For now try to imagine me in that moment and enjoy the best of eight and I, because I know I still do:
8: I just saw your story. I can’t believe I didn’t see you there. I’m shocked and pissed.
me: Why pissed?
8: That I didn’t see you sitting there. My focus is in that general area for most of the game.
me: Well. Heyyy!
8: I’m slipping.
me: No. You’re watching the game.
8: I watch everything. Who’s coming in, who’s getting food, who’s warming up. I scan the crowd constantly.
me: Well I got my drink during the anthem, which is when I got there.
8: That means I didn’t see you the entire game. That’s bad.
me: Well there was well over a thousand people there.
me: You’ve never met me? (Hint.)
8: Doesn’t mean I don’t know your face. (Cute.)
me: I had a hat on? I don’t know! It’s not a big deal dude. Hiiiii!
8: Like I said, I have high standards. I like knowing everything that is happening during the game. Everything.
me: Because? You’re analytical? Whats the goal?
8: Not so much analytical but it helps me focus.
8: If I roll up a pinner and come pick you up, wanna go on a doobie cruise? (This.)
me: I literally just finished a big joint. lmao
8: It’s your birthday / day off / live a little goodie 2 shoes.
me: Ok. (Be cool bitch.)
8: If you don’t want to that’s cool, you can say no, I’m just busting your metaphoric balls, but if you do, whats your address? (Are you stupid, get in the car already.)
me: XXX Xxxxxxxx Drive
8: Ok I’ll be there in about 10. I drive a black Jetta. I apologize in advance it’s not the cleanest.
8: Out front.
It’s 2am on the day before my birthday, I’m high as a kite and chilled through to the bone, I’ve changed back into my jeans, wiped the smudged mascara under my eyes away, smoothed my hair behind my ears, and I’m getting into a black Jetta, with tinted windows that’s parked against the boulevard outside of my home. I practically skipped down my driveway, opened the door, and didn’t even try to hide the smirk, I got in the car and said “Hey … so this is unexpected huh?” He reached into the console of his car and handed me a joint and a lighter. “Do you always smell this good?” he asks. (Am I wearing perfume? Nope, I’m not. I had hairspray in my hair earlier. Is this a line? What’s happening? Can we make out? Omg, shut up.) I say it’s hairspray, he says it smells like flowers, I shrug, and light the joint, and I look like a bad bitch doing it too. I could feel the heat blasting, seat warmers on high, thank god, but I was still shivering, and it was visible, and I was immediately annoyed with my body core temperature. I’m not a nervous person and I’m realizing how I look like one. (But maybe just maybe if I get higher that’ll go away. Nope, it didn’t, got worse, cool.) We drove around for 15 or 20 minutes, smoking the joint and getting to know one another in little bits. I told him to stop asking me deep “whats the meaning of life” questions because I was way too high. He laughed and asked me something else that was way out of this world “Oops I did it again. Sorry.” Honestly I don’t even know what we said, that’s how high I was, that never happens to me, ever, honest. He asked me what my big day off plans were later that day, I told him shopping and he suggested, that if I’m interested, we could go get a drink in the afternoon together on a patio somewhere. I said yea I’d like to. We finished the joint. He dropped me off and wished me a good sleep. I went inside, changed back into my jogging pants and a text came in:
8: Are you going to be ok?
me: About? (Jesus, he noticed the shivering, fuck.)
8: Well you seemed a little uneasy. (Fuuuckkk.)
me: I had assumed you were going to be my funny penpal forever?
8: I’m pretty easy, we can do that if you want.
me: I didn’t say that.
8: I know I’m just razzing you. 🙂
me: I’m still cold from the game and high as balls. (Be honest.)
8: No wonder you’re cold your pants had tonnes of holes in them.
me: Ok dad.
8: Well it’s not rocket surgery.
me: I wear office bullshit all week. I like to dress like an idiot on my days off.
8: You could dress like a warm idiot. (This is still one of my favourite things. Ever.)
me: Ok mom.
me: Its still goddamn summer, I’m sorry I expected weathhher more congruent with our season.
We chatted a bit more. Why he couldn’t have just STUCK around and said all this in person I’ll never know. At 3am he signed off “I’m going to crash. Have fun shopping tomorrow. Message me if you’re down for that drink.” I replied in typical me fashion; “Same. Duh. I will/am.” I was so goddamn proud of that text – you don’t even know – probably because I was high, but I thought it was adorable. Eight replied “Ok, sweet. Have a good sleep.”