We’ll meet, probably through friends or in a bar. Maybe you’re into big-boned blondes. Maybe I look like your ex or maybe even your mom- I won’t know because I’ll never meet her. We’ll connect online somewhere- Facebook/Gchat/etc, where I’m most comfortable and at my wittiest. You’ll think I’m smart and kinda funny, for a girl. We’ll make plans to meet for a drink. I’ll probably put out straight away but remain emotionally ambivalent. You’ll be very charming and aggressive, eventually starting to win me over. With that, what you think of me will begin to matter and I’ll freeze. My personality will disappear. I’ll seem shy and reserved, biting my tongue more often than not. You’ll wonder what happened and begin to suspect that your initial impression of me was wrong.
At some point, you’ll toss off a comment about how you’re into “curvy girls” or “more ass than tits” or “all different types of women” and I’ll silently interpret that as a reference to my weight, about which I am fatally self-conscious.
I’ll grow even more distant. Humorless. Stiff. Private about seemingly arbitrary things, constantly slamming tiny doors in your face. I’ll gently prod your weaknesses, not to inflict pain but bring you down the the level of vulnerability that I’m experiencing myself (I’ll have no idea that I’m doing this until way after the fact). It won’t work; you’ll just think I’m being a bitch.
Soon, you’ll lose interest and/or I’ll find some reason to end things, like the fact that you talk about yourself too much, have a drinking problem or post too many selfies on Instagram. We’ll part ways very amicably because at this point all of my energy is going towards acting like I don’t give a shit. I’ll disappear completely. There will be no latenight text messages, no “I left ____ at your house” ‘s. I won’t talk about you with mutual friends, if we have any, or “accidentally” bump into you anywhere. If you do any of those things, I’ll completely ignore it.
A few months or years later, we’ll cross paths again. Strike up a friendship. Something about having once been naked with someone encourages a level of comfort and ease that I enjoy. I’ll be relaxed and funny. I’ll tease you mercilessly and help you wade through whatever romantic entanglement you’re currently involved in. You’ll see the girl you initially thought I was – because that’s who I actually am when not on my “best behavior” in the name of romance. You may wish and maybe even ask for another go at it but I’ll be uninterested. Unfairly disappointed in you for not having seen through my wooden front or still willfully turned off by the stupid thing I’d used as excuse to wipe away any possibility I saw with us. Rejecting a second chance because I, someone constantly in need of one myself, can’t summon the generosity to give it.