Dating a stranger
Alhambra
It's strange how life keeps spinning even when you're still untangling yourself from the wreckage of a long-term relationship. It’s like one day you’re in sync, perfectly aligned with someone, and then suddenly, you’re just… not. And now, months later, I’m here, sitting at this ceramics class. I can’t tell if I actually like it or if it’s just something to do with my hands so I don’t have to think too hard.
I haven’t dated anyone since the breakup, and honestly, I’m not there yet—wherever "there" even is. Somewhere over the rainbow of emotionally available, probably. But last week, in the middle of trying to shape what was supposed to be a mug but looked more like a wobbly ashtray, this girl—white, soft-spoken, too put together for a Monday night pottery class—asked me out. Just like that, like it was a normal thing people do. As if we’re all just out here living our lives, not constantly rewriting the endings of our past loves in our heads.
It caught me off guard. I didn’t even have time to think about what I might’ve done to get her attention. Was it my tattoos? Do they scream something about me I don’t quite know yet? Or was it just because I’m loud—always filling up the silence because empty space makes me itch? I’m the one in class who talks too much, brings up some throught provoking topic that makes everyone think. I don’t know.
People usually assume I’m straight, which I guess I can’t blame them for. Unless I’m in a gay space or I flat-out say it, my queerness just floats in this ambiguous space that nobody seems to notice unless they’re looking really hard. But here I am, in this decidedly neutral, borderline sterile room full of half-finished sculptures, and a stranger decides to shoot her shot. The absurdity of it all is almost comforting. She has no idea I’m still untangling threads of my last relationship—sticky, messy, frayed at the edges.
Since she asked, I’ve been rolling the idea around in my head, turning it over like a piece of clay I don’t quite know how to shape. Should I explore it? I’m not ready for anything serious—I know that much. But maybe that’s exactly why I should. Maybe this is one of those moments where you do the thing you wouldn’t usually do because, hell, you’re trying to find a way out of your own head. Maybe because something outside of myself feels less terrifying than the broken record of my own thoughts.
I know—I know—I’ll never meet anyone like my ex. That sounds dramatic, but it’s the truth in the raw, unfiltered way that only post-breakup honesty can bring. She was beautiful in that kind of effortlessly intimidating way, and smart, and ambitious, and there’s this nagging voice in my head that keeps whispering: “You peaked.” But do I care anymore about that? I’m not so sure. Maybe it’s not even about finding someone who meets all those checkboxes we obsess over. Maybe it’s about letting go of the damn checklist altogether.
I think relationships do that to you—force you to reconsider all the things you thought were non-negotiable. You come out the other side and suddenly your standards feel flimsy, like paper dolls you’ve outgrown. You thought you needed this idealized version of love, but now you’re just hoping for something that feels even a little bit real, even if it’s fleeting. A moment of connection that doesn’t have to mean forever.
So maybe I’ll say yes to this girl. Not because I’m ready, not because I’m over anything, but because I’m curious. Because the only way out of the labyrinth of my own mind is to keep moving, even if it’s sideways. I want to see what happens when I let myself be someone else’s version of messy for a change. It won’t be what I had before, and it won’t be perfect, but maybe it doesn’t have to be.
And who knows? Maybe I’ll end up with a terrible date story to tell in class next week. Or maybe I’ll find out something about myself I didn’t know. Either way, it’s something. And something is better than nothing.
September 13, 2024
I haven’t dated anyone since the breakup, and honestly, I’m not there yet—wherever "there" even is. Somewhere over the rainbow of emotionally available, probably. But last week, in the middle of trying to shape what was supposed to be a mug but looked more like a wobbly ashtray, this girl—white, soft-spoken, too put together for a Monday night pottery class—asked me out. Just like that, like it was a normal thing people do. As if we’re all just out here living our lives, not constantly rewriting the endings of our past loves in our heads.
It caught me off guard. I didn’t even have time to think about what I might’ve done to get her attention. Was it my tattoos? Do they scream something about me I don’t quite know yet? Or was it just because I’m loud—always filling up the silence because empty space makes me itch? I’m the one in class who talks too much, brings up some throught provoking topic that makes everyone think. I don’t know.
People usually assume I’m straight, which I guess I can’t blame them for. Unless I’m in a gay space or I flat-out say it, my queerness just floats in this ambiguous space that nobody seems to notice unless they’re looking really hard. But here I am, in this decidedly neutral, borderline sterile room full of half-finished sculptures, and a stranger decides to shoot her shot. The absurdity of it all is almost comforting. She has no idea I’m still untangling threads of my last relationship—sticky, messy, frayed at the edges.
Since she asked, I’ve been rolling the idea around in my head, turning it over like a piece of clay I don’t quite know how to shape. Should I explore it? I’m not ready for anything serious—I know that much. But maybe that’s exactly why I should. Maybe this is one of those moments where you do the thing you wouldn’t usually do because, hell, you’re trying to find a way out of your own head. Maybe because something outside of myself feels less terrifying than the broken record of my own thoughts.
I know—I know—I’ll never meet anyone like my ex. That sounds dramatic, but it’s the truth in the raw, unfiltered way that only post-breakup honesty can bring. She was beautiful in that kind of effortlessly intimidating way, and smart, and ambitious, and there’s this nagging voice in my head that keeps whispering: “You peaked.” But do I care anymore about that? I’m not so sure. Maybe it’s not even about finding someone who meets all those checkboxes we obsess over. Maybe it’s about letting go of the damn checklist altogether.
I think relationships do that to you—force you to reconsider all the things you thought were non-negotiable. You come out the other side and suddenly your standards feel flimsy, like paper dolls you’ve outgrown. You thought you needed this idealized version of love, but now you’re just hoping for something that feels even a little bit real, even if it’s fleeting. A moment of connection that doesn’t have to mean forever.
So maybe I’ll say yes to this girl. Not because I’m ready, not because I’m over anything, but because I’m curious. Because the only way out of the labyrinth of my own mind is to keep moving, even if it’s sideways. I want to see what happens when I let myself be someone else’s version of messy for a change. It won’t be what I had before, and it won’t be perfect, but maybe it doesn’t have to be.
And who knows? Maybe I’ll end up with a terrible date story to tell in class next week. Or maybe I’ll find out something about myself I didn’t know. Either way, it’s something. And something is better than nothing.
September 13, 2024