Two memories, one painful, one less so:
A sweaty summer’s night outside my local comedy theatre, golden marquee lights blazing above the crowd of improv stragglers smoking weed on the sidewalk. I’m talking to a teammate of mine who is both funny and sweet, a deadly combination for me. Trembling, I take a deep breath and ask him, “Have you noticed that I’ve been flirting with you?” It’s the first time either of us has mentioned my massive crush on him, despite it being so effervescent that it often overflows into drunken giggles and romantic improv scenes.
But he doesn’t respond with the enthusiasm I was hoping for. There’s a confusing conversational volley where he won’t commit to saying “Yes, I’m interested” or “No, I’m not”; he keeps waffling on what he actually needs to say. When I start to get frustrated and ask him point-blank for clarification, he gestures at my wedding ring – having met my wife when she came to a show a few weeks previous – and he says, “I’m not looking for anything casual.”
Taken aback, I furrow my brow. “I’m not, either,” I say, slowly, because to me, it’s the most obvious thing in the world. I wasn’t even particularly trying to fuck this man; I moreso wanted to take him to shows, laugh with him for hours, stay up until 3 a.m. having deep philosophical conversations with him. None of that is casual to me. I’m not sure where my communication took a wrong fork in the road, but it must have happened somewhere along the line – or else why would he be under such a mistaken impression?