The Way Things Are Supposed to Be

I lift my left fist. It hovers inches from the door, my arm a right angle. I move it back, as if to knock, but for some reason or another it doesn’t land, and I think briefly that my muscles stopped working, and then I realize I am afraid. We are supposed to talk. I move my fist back. My hand collapses against my thigh.

I lean back against the wall. I slump down to the floor, stretch my right leg out so my shoe grazes the opposite wall, and bend my left knee. I tilt my head, then straighten it. I switch legs. I try to look cool, disinterested. I bite the skin flaking off around my thumb nail. I don’t know why I told him in the first place. I switch legs. Will you quit biting? I lean my head back.

David opens the door. “I didn’t hear you knock,” he says.

I climb to my feet, take off my shoes. As usual, I climb over the back of the loveseat and sit down. I cross my legs. David asks if I want a drink, and he brings out two wine glasses. I hold mine by the stem. I take a sip. It’s cold, smooth. David lights a tiny red candle that’s supposed to smell like apples but doesn’t. I adjust my fingers to cradle the cup in my palm with the stem extending between my first and middle fingers. I take a sip. David usually sits on the bigger couch, in a seat adjacent to mine, but tonight he sits in a chair across the room. I uncross my legs. I take a sip. I chew on my thumb. Stop that. I want him closer, I want to curl my body against the armrest and pretend it’s his chest. I want to kiss him and the thought is smooth. I cross my legs. I wait.

“You’re really cool,” he says. I look up at him, then down at the floor, then at my index finger tracing circles in the condensation forming on my glass. “But I’m not gay.”

I take a sip, another, another. I bite my thumb. I uncross my legs. I try to look cool. Stop biting! My face feels hot, and it might be embarrassment but it could be the wine; disinterested. It doesn’t matter. I take a sip. I tilt my head back, and the liquid slides down my throat. The ice cube drifts lazily towards my lips, then clatters abruptly against the bottom of the cup. I cross my legs. I want to kiss him, but the thought is ice this time. I place the empty wine glass on the folding table, next to the candle that’s supposed to smell like apples but doesn’t.

“Okay,” I say. I’m blushing. It’s not the wine, certainly. I look at him again, then down again. I fidget with the button on my left shirt sleeve. Suddenly the button is very interesting. I try to look disinterested in everything else but the button. I try to look cool, but I probably look like a cherry. I bite my thumb and it tastes like metal. I keep chewing. I uncross my legs. I tilt my head back. I try to look cool. “That’s what I thought you’d say.” Disinterested. I want to kiss him. I want. I want. I want, more desperately this time.

David shrugs. “It’s not fair.” I cross my legs. I look at him, then at the floor. “I would date you. You know, if you were a girl.” I look at the wine glass next to the candle that is supposed to smell like apples but doesn’t; I want to shatter it, but I don’t. 

In some other universe, I grab the glass and smash it against the floor. In some other universe, David lights a tiny candle that’s supposed to smell like apples and does. In some other universe I stop chewing on my goddamn skin; and in some other universe my fist collides with the door; and in some other universe I was born a girl and stayed that way; and in some other universe I meet his gaze and we kiss. But my thumbnail is wet with spit and blood and the room smells like a match, like burning, and the wine burns in my stomach, and David’s eyes burn into the top of my head, and my breasts burn under my shirt. I uncross my legs. I fidget with the button on my shirt sleeve. I try to look cool but I am on fire. I try to look disinterested but I am cherry-red. I try to stop wanting to kiss him. I try to stop wanting to be a man. I climb over the loveseat, put on my shoes. My left hand hovers inches from the doorknob.