We saw each other, again and again, at Shelly’s annual 4th of July (“gala extravaganzee”) parties. You were all the things I was not: wild, free, and uninhibited. You carried around your hefty pitcher of rum, always claiming to be on your “first” cocktail. You made everyone laugh, constantly, including me. And I knew you found me attractive because you told me so. This confused me; I couldn’t fathom anyone as cool as you even noticing me. At 23, I was 15 years your junior, but we connected over shared stories around the University of Washington. You were intelligent—maybe too intelligent for your own good. You could talk to anyone about anything.
The party of 2013 got out of hand, very literally, in the sense that you lit ten sparklers simultaneously and burned your hand before you dropped them. Ice was your friend that night. I was sorry you had hurt yourself, but I was pleased to have a legitimate reason to contact you via Facebook the following week.
How is your hand doing?
It was blistered but fine, you told me. And then, to my surprise, you asked if I would want to hang out if you ever came to Seattle. You suggested sipping mojitos and wearing white linen pants while strolling around Alki. It sounded like a date to me. I couldn’t tell anyone, though; I couldn’t risk the raised eyebrows.
We did meet for drinks, just the two of us, just once. There was the same flirtatious banter and hilarious story-telling that I loved. There were red flags, too: you seemed stuck in your twenties, in a way that was not so becoming. You drank. A lot. And your living situation was unstable. You were floundering.
Here’s the thing: I was, too. There is no shame in being the metaphorical plastic bag in the wind, at any age. At that time, though, I felt compelled to surround myself with people who helped ground me. We never had a second date.
Where has the wind taken you now, Sid Alessandro?
