 |
| (Young-Love) oil on linen by Vicki Sullivan |
It was cold. The streets buried in snow. Monday night. The
sapphic speed dating event I’d registered for was set to start at 7 p.m., and I
was still debating whether to go. Who plans something like that on a freezing
Monday night?
I walked into the sport brewery. The host pointed me to the
seating and where to hang my coat. I went to the bar, forgot it was a
brewery—no whiskey, just craft beer—so I walked away with a glass of water.
Disappointed.
A few women were already at the event table, trying to kick
off conversation. They broke the ice by talking hockey. I checked out mentally.
I don’t know a thing about hockey, and frankly, I don't care to. It felt like
the wrong flavor for a sapphic night—masculine, stiff, dull.
Then the last woman arrived.
While she was removing her coat, I looked at her—maybe a bit
too long.
She’s beautiful, I thought.
She sat at the far end of the table, which meant she’d be
one of the last dates of the night. Her presence—brown skin, wavy hair, a
casual mix of sport jacket and rolled-up sleeves—jeans, those lips. Big. Full.
The kind that speak before she does. She looked like trouble wrapped in green
flags.
I knew right then: if we matched, it would be passion, not
logic, not compatibility. Fire, not blueprint.
Before we started, we went around introducing ourselves.
Just a name, a line or two about who we are. She smiled at me and said, “You
have a unique name. Like me.”
Fuck, I thought.
That’s exactly what I do—those little comments, that soft
tone, the eye contact with gravity. That was flirting. That was a mirror. I
knew, then, we’d match. Even before speaking to her directly, I knew.
Each date was eight minutes. But the eight I had with her?
Only five were useful. The rest were stolen by glances—those long, loaded
stares that stretch between two women who already want each other, but are
pretending not to. Our pauses weren’t awkward; they were tactical. Charged. The
kind of silence where you feel your pulse in your neck and wonder if she hears
it too.
I left right after the rounds ended. Skipped the mingling.
She was chatting with someone else, and I had no interest in small talk with
the girl from my last date.
The days after, I waited for the results email impatiently.
We matched. Of course we did.
Her contact info was included in the email. I texted her
immediately.
* * *
She picked me up in a soft-top convertible sport car. I got
in. She didn’t look at me. Just focused on the road, accelerating toward the
top of a hill. I knew what was up there. Monsters. But she didn’t slow down.
We didn’t speak.
The road kept narrowing as we climbed—sharp curves, steep
incline, no guardrails. It was dark now, the kind of darkness that eats the
edges of things. I gripped the door, swearing the right tires had slipped off
the shoulder more than once. We kept going. Silent. Climbing.
Then, out of nowhere—like a fever dream cracking open—bats.
Dozens of them. Ugly, rabid things, slamming into the car from all sides, their
wings smacking the windows like they were trying to break in.
I panicked. Begged her to turn back.
She didn’t even blink.
I twisted in my seat, checking the back, terrified the roof
would tear and they’d swarm us. But what I saw stopped me.
A brown falcon. A small owl. A tiny bird.
All tucked quietly in the backseat like passengers too
traumatized to speak.
How did they get in? I asked myself. Were they
hiding from the bats?
I felt responsible for them. Protective. I grabbed the only
thing I could find—a water spray bottle. No plan. Just instinct. I started
spraying the windows.
It worked. Somehow, it worked. The bats retreated.
And then—the falcon was gone. The owl. The bird.
I whispered to myself, We’re safe.
She pulled over. It was almost dawn. I hadn’t realized how
far we’d driven. This place wasn’t familiar. Far from the city. A strange
middle of nowhere.
She stepped out. No words. No glance back. Just walked away,
disappearing behind a hill.
I followed.
When I reached the top, I stood still.
The hill divided two lands—one blanketed in snow, the other
dry, golden desert.
It made no sense.
Then I heard her voice.
“Come on, get back in the car. Let’s head back.”
* * *
She texted me back after a couple of hours.
We exchanged a few messages over the next few days,
eventually planning to meet for dinner.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the dream.
Something about her didn’t sit right with me. I didn’t know
if it was intuition or just fear. But I knew one thing—
I was hoping I wouldn’t fall for her charm.
Or kiss those impossible lips.
