“J, will you have coffee with me six times a week plz?” His spare texts make my cheeks warm. I sit in anticipation for his witty banter and sarcastic tones. He makes me laugh. I am intrigued by every story and turn of the conversation. We’ve gone out a couple times now, and each evening a reservation has been made, the time has been watched closely and every door is open ahead of me. I even caught him intentionally walking on the street side of the sidewalk. Pleasantly surprised by his gentlemanly behavior, I welcome it warmly. Our conversation on any given date consists of topics ranging from Orwellian non-fiction to the art of whisky cocktails. He digs up a side of me that has lain dormant and dead for so long. After all, I tend not to lean the conversation towards, mise-en-scene or the commodification of human life with just anyone; most of my friends just don’t swing that way. I’ve found myself growing frustrated, his presence inspires me to create again. I want to display that artist in me, I want to wear it through my clothes and hang it on my walls, but feel stuck in the place I am in. This frustration has been closely coupled with excitement, anticipation for an outlet, a new phase of life, turning back to those things that once brought me so much joy. Much too early on in this thing... dare I say relationship? We’ve talked about screen plays we want to write and films we’d love to make. Possibly, quite possibly, could we do this together? Time will tell the tale. Time will discern the outcome.
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