In the meditation app you let expire because $14.99 monthly is too steep a price to pay for peace of mind, there’s an image of a man gazing out at the night sky. His head is the galaxy.
Lately, you’ve been noticing the contents of your own head when you look out the window. A brick wall, a gray sky, a naked tree.
Glancing up from your desk to watch spring slowly spread to the tree out the window next to yours, to the tree across the street. The sky lightens into blues and fluffs of white.
You watch all the trees except for yours turn green. Your tree is still naked and scraggly. You and me both tree, you think, you and me both.
There’s more gravity than usual, you explain. Your voice feels like a stranger, flat and distant. Everything is work. A little harder, a little heavier.
It sounds like mild to moderate depression, your therapist says.
But sometimes, sometimes, things are good, you tell her. Sometimes things are so good. You spent the afternoon in the sunshine with a friend and remembered what good feels like. The high feels so, so high, you explain.
Let’s watch that high, your therapist says. That’s concerning. I don’t think it is, but there’s a chance there could be some mania in there. Let’s keep an eye on that. We’ll talk next week.
The laptop screen closes and you spend the week feeling guilty about being happy. You catch yourself smiling, and wonder if it’s too much joy.
Things were easier when it was just depression.
Sometimes your head looks like your business mentor telling you via Zoom that there was an Argentinian man speaking at a conference she was at, and that his accent was gorgeous, and how if she was you she’d be falling in love right now.
It’s not for lack of trying, you think to yourself, it’s not for lack of trying.
Your mind goes to the four dates in a row that were canceled from four different men. It goes to the dates that weren’t canceled, and to the men you have sat across from.
The one who was a little shorter and a little less interesting than he seemed on Bumble. The one who had a little less neck than he had on Bumble. The one who told you you’d get fat from eating the yellow parts of eggs every day. He was also from Bumble.
You think of the man who argued with you on the first date, comparing consent to deciding what to have for dinner.
If you convince someone to eat at the restaurant that you want to go to, that’s socially acceptable, he insisted. So if you change someone’s mind about wanting sex, then that makes the sex consensual.
No, it doesn’t, you reply, explaining that that’s called manipulation, and can he please leave your apartment now?
Sometimes your head becomes your dance partners. Some have thick eyebrows, some wear gold chains of Jesus on the cross, some are balding, some chew gum, some smell like cigarettes, some have just the right amount of stubble that you could taste if you leaned in half an inch more.
You move from partner to partner, thinking about how many different ways there are to be human, how many different ways there are to dance to the same beat.
You reach for your partner’s hands, trying to listen. Las manos hablan, you’ve been told, the hands talk.
Sometimes they count uno, dos, tres, as they shuffle you around the floor, sometimes they wait patiently for you to catch up, sometimes they squeeze tighter when you’ve stepped off on the wrong foot.
Sometimes they ask if it’s your first time dancing salsa. This does not make you feel good. As this is most definitely not your first time dancing salsa.
You try not to tense your arms as you’ve been told a woman should let the man move her however he wants. You are not used to this, and find it rather challenging.
You wonder what you’re like to dance with. You wonder if you’re as bad a dancer as some of the men make you feel. You think about how the best dancers always make you feel like you’re the one who’s a good dancer.
Sometimes you catch your head turning into the chest of the man you’re fucking. Your head becomes your thoughts as you suck in your stomach and pretend to have a nice time and wonder what he’s thinking.
Your thoughts wonder if he’s sucking in his stomach as well and pretending to have a nice time and wondering what you’re thinking.
When all you’re really thinking is why everyone makes such a big deal about sex, when it’s really all about the cuddles afterwards.
And can’t he tell that your legs don’t bend that way? And can he just stick a finger in your ass already? And how many dates do you have to sit through before you can ask him to shave his pencil mustache? And why is he still speaking English?
You’d told him about your no-English-in-the-bedroom rule, as you’d learned from experience that nothing kills the mood quicker than broken English in a bad accent. He’s chosen to ignore the rule.
“Enjoy,” he announces after his pants come off. You politely remind him of the rule. A rule he considers himself exempt from. Likely on behalf of being a Latin man.
“You’re so nasty,” he tells you as you suck him off. You cringe and something dies inside of you. It is most likely your sex drive. He thrusts into you and exclaims, “This is awesome!” And just like that, you start to see the appeal of abstinence.
The next morning, it is clear that he would like more sex. You go into the bathroom and remind yourself that just because you consented last night, does mean continuous consent. You leave the bathroom to put clothes on. He has taken clothes off.
You offer him a cup of tea. Unfortunately, he accepts. You mention all of your upcoming travel plans and how busy your day ahead is, how very busy indeed.
He asks if you’d like him to go. For lack of a better way to phrase it, you say that yes, that’d probably be best, and you walk him out of your building.
You decide that you should probably get better at kicking people out, and bring it up to your guy friends. Just ask him to leave, one of them says. Just fake your period and tell him you need to be held, another says.
You add it to your to-do list. Underneath relax arms and eat less eggs. You think about how things would probably be easier if your head was just the galaxy.
For real though, fuuuuuuck Bumble