It's Just a Date

It’s just a date.

I am socially irreparable (no, do better than that, I am possible) and she is extremely pretty and it is just a date. It’s okay that my stomach houses pterodactyls at the thought of her eyes on me for longer than a glance.

My mama told me to eat my heart out once. Dinner is at a diner because it makes me feel like we’re one of those impossible stories. A story about people alive and loving each other even when the systems work to eradicate them. Sitting in a corner diner booth with her hand on my thigh feels like getting away with something, feels like being brave. It’s small but I take my strengths where I can.

It’s cold. Even the hot chocolate we shared is turning ice cream in our throats as we walk outside. When I offer her my sweatshirt she says, “Then you’ll be cold. How can I be warm if I know you’re cold?”

So I give her my hand instead.

For a few minutes, the walk feels absent of fear. Just holding someone I love while we exist together. She makes a joke and I laugh snort, too happy to even register embarrassment like when I laugh or talk or am in my family’s house. She makes me laugh so hard I forget I’m going back to my family’s house.

When I catch my breath, I look at her and the breath isn’t knocked out of me, it’s like breathing learned to do something brand new in my chest just so I could be full body here with her.

“I’m so happy we did this,” I say.

She smiles because I’m smiling. She knows my eyes can’t hold much all at once, but this, this is something that I want to remember. Her hair plaited back and the little peek of her teeth as she grins, while the clouds shuffle themselves in front of the moon like they need to be a part of this moment too. Her small puffs of hot chocolate breath come towards me so I lean closer and wait for her to meet me where she is most comfortable. I’m happy if it comes as a kiss, or a forehead touch, or a whispered word. Just anything that lets me be near her.

Words I won’t  repeat hit us from behind. We snap back at the same time and continue walking. She squeezes my hand like don’t look back like I’m right here like we’re getting home tonight, even if we don’t know where home is, we are getting there alive and tonight.

I know she’s right. So I squeeze back.

But then, there is a hand that is not kind turning me around and I have not put strength in my heels fast enough to dig into place. I stumble but I do not let go of her hand.

His words blur into the wounding of a playground bully, volume of hurt turned to one thousand; I wouldn’t be able to catch them even if I wanted to understand them.

I am terrified and I believe that could go without saying but I want to say it anyway. My teeth have reasons to be sharp but never are when I need them most.

Fear sticks me in place until his eyes slide from me to her.

I shouldn’t tell you what happens. I cannot.

There is blood mixed with my hot chocolate breath.

There is too much blood. I cannot tell you what happened. But.

I was afraid and now I am not.

I was empty and now I am full.

The skin that is not mine and not hers makes a home for itself on the sidewalk. When I look around to make sure she escaped—even if those eyes and those hands do not return to me, at least now they have the chance to choose whatever they do next—I’m startled to see her still there. Calm. She looks at me like I gave her an answer she was hoping for.

I wonder if our hungers know each other.

She raises her left hand and I flinch. I’m sorry, but she is patient. When I settle, she lays a finger on the corner of my lips and gently brushes away whatever is left of that person that wanted to hurt her.

The blood in my mouth cakes. I don’t think to cry until her touch. The tears surprise me. Fear usually bottles itself and I remain a cabinet for it. I never thought anyone would open me, that anyone would look for the bottle and let it pour itself out.

We hear sirens.

She pulls me until we’re running. I don’t look over my shoulder. I feel sick and my wings are coming. I don’t know where we’re going but being with her is enough. There is something—something not covered in blue red lies, something not her—watching me. The eyes make my blood itch.

Mama said to eat my heart out once. But how do I do that when it just grows in the devouring?

I look at our hands, fingers interlaced. How brave she has made me.

Why didn’t Mama want me to keep my heart?

© 2022 A. Tony Jerome

About the Author

A. Tony Jerome is a black autistic writer and student. Currently working at Autostraddle, they are a 2016 Lambda Literary Young Adult Fiction Fellow and 2021-22 Lit From the Black! Technical Theatre Fellow. You can find their work at youhavethewritetoremember.net.