We met through a mutual friend. You were an artist. Unconventional. Gregarious—not reclusive. You were the type to make anyone fall in love. We were both relatively new to Oakland, and I thought I just wanted some friends. But when I met you, I wanted more. Saturday mornings, we learned to dance Cuban salsa with Vincent on Grand Avenue. I liked to dance, but I especially loved an excuse to be close to you. If it weren’t for my legs, which felt like jelly in your presence, I might have been a better dancer.
I invited you to my house to practice. I think you knew I liked you? On my sofa, I showed you the video my brother had produced. “Wow,” you said about the model. “I want to meet her.” That was my first indication that the interest was not reciprocated. Still, we practiced salsa steps around my open kitchen.
Before you left that night, I felt a rush of courage. “I’m interested in you,” I said. I knew for sure when your face fell. You weren’t ready for a relationship, you said gently. We both knew that was an excuse: You simply weren’t that into me. I was sad and embarrassed, but I survived anyway, and my therapist told me he was proud. Proud that I practiced romantic vulnerability. So I guess all was net neutral in the end?
