The Last First
No more tan line on my left ring finger. No more rose gold necklace with the coordinates of the bar in East Village where we met. No more. No more. My gaze left my void ring finger and caught my reflection on the window of my Lyft, I could see him ghosting on that paler than usual face, afraid of the bald head that chemo left me with.
Mama said I had to start dating again. She said it’s not about the one who stole all of my firsts, but the one who is lucky enough to get all of my lasts. Known by my high school and college friends to always throw up before first dates, I loathed going on dates.
Three weeks out of surgery. Tight black leggings brushing up against the incisions. Shaking hot pink manicure holding my phone close. You didn’t feel like a stranger in the hot lights hanging above the half-full bottles of tequila. In fact in the pink swirls left over in my martini glass, I almost could convince we knew each other before.
I flinched when he touched me, I leaned into your hand around my waist. He hated country music, you turned it up in your car. He would instinctively put my sweater back up to my neck if it happened to reveal my shoulder, you left it and ran your soft hand across the exposed skin. He would always nitpick at my wig until it was just right, you told me it was gorgeous but that I didn’t need to wear it around you. He would make fun of me when I wanted to dance, you danced with me in front of the entire crowd as if it were just the two of us.
No history lesson of my past. No fidgeting with my wig. No judgment. No checking your cell every two seconds missing every word I ever said to you. No rubbing exes in my face. No trying to one up me with your stories and career.
And as my hand stopped shaking in the grasp of yours, I realized I hadn’t thrown up before this date. I had only met a bunch of firsts that dissected me until I was just a pair of hot pink heels on the floor, but you weren’t looking to play a short game. And suddenly in the disco lights of a sweaty country bar, ditching my blistering heels, spilling my martini all over you as you spun me around, I became your last.
No more. No more.