Weekend Getaway
Can I confess something? I am a total romantic. I want my forever love to be just like the movies. The books. You know, the scenarios that I fantasize about with the various strangers that pass me by while I’m sitting in a small, locally owned coffee shop, drinking the same, simple cup of coffee everyday. A simple hot cup of black coffee with no cream and no sugar. Simple. That’s me: a simple romantic who doesn’t ask for much.
When I met Owen, it was perfect. He was tall (enough) with moppy brown hair and the charisma of a progressive political candidate. He had hobbies, interests, pet peeves, and a full life expectancy. To me, on the surface, he was perfect. I had found the perfect mold for my perfect boyfriend. If only I realized sooner that another definition of mold is a fungal growth which causes decay.
Our first date was at a sandwich shop where I blew through all of the topics that should be covered on a fifth date, like which parental relationship affected me negatively the most and why I will never eat a tuna melt again (if you want to know, you’ll have to take me out). I’ve never gotten to a fifth date, so I like to cover these topics on the first. I don’t see any negative correlation between my failure to reach the penultimate fifth date to my aggressive talent of oversharing. I simply put it all out there. Again, simple.
After 45 minutes, he received an emergency call from his father, and said that he had to leave. I know, right? Leaving the first date for a family emergency…he’s just so... manly. I love a man who puts his family first, so it didn’t even bother me that he ended our date prematurely. I mean, yes, it did cross my mind that he was making up an excuse to leave early. Please! I’ve done that too. I am not innocent of a concurrent date regret, but Owen was different. He was everything I thought I wanted. We had the same likes (I liked everything he liked, and if I didn’t, I would simply change my mind) and the same dislikes (earthquakes, the smell of rotten eggs, and those little delivery service robots that wander about). It was like I was talking to my reflection, if I liked my reflection.
For our second date–I told you he wasn’t lying about the family emergency–I rented an AirBnB in Joshua Tree that I thought would be perfect for a weekend getaway. I told him that I wanted to disconnect from the world and truly be present with myself (lie), but I was scared to be alone (lie) and that it would be great to have him as company (true). So we went together. It was one wide open room that was accessed through a sliding glass door. The bathroom was off to the immediate left that was covered by a flimsy, wooden, and slatted door that, with one look, I knew wouldn’t upkeep any of my desired bathroom privacy which added to the pressure to conceal my imperfections to match his already perfect demeanor. The AirBnB and its open concept bathroom was meant for a solo traveler or two people who were extremely comfortable with each other. Admittedly, it was not the best selection for a second date, but could be quite perfect for a third.
On our first full day, we ate mushroom chocolate, but the foundation of antidepressants both of us had in our systems built a wall of fortitude against any psychoactive hallucinations. To compensate for the failed chocolate, we smoked weed, which I do not partake in after an incident marked in my calendar as “Scotty Herrera Weed Death”, but as previously stated, I could like anything he liked with a simple flip of a switch. If we were going to be a perfect couple, we had to have the same hobbies. I hadn’t smoked in a long while, and what’s the worst that could happen? I had my big, strong manly man by my side.
After we smoked, I immediately felt something shift within myself. I already had a heightened sense of anxiety from trying to hide any and all flaws I had, and the weed didn’t help to lessen the butter churn that was my stomach. I was so high that I had to go inside to gather myself. As I sat inside on the flat, white bed, my mind fixated on the whirring coming from the air conditioning unit protruding from the left wall that warped into a collection of voices.
“He’s so weird. I don’t know why I even came out here with him.” I heard this, amongst other insults, through the gullet of the all-knowing air conditioner unit assuming it was Owen on the phone with a friend, and I believed it.
I began to spiral, thinking about how I had been picked up and driven two hours to the middle of the desert from my home by a practically complete stranger who, I realized, most likely agreed to this trip because they are a crazy, stalker murderer who wants to kill me! It wouldn’t be the first time someone attempted to kill me on a date, and it wouldn’t be the last.
Owen came in a few minutes later, dispersing the chatter session led by the air conditioning unit, the four white walls, and me, the innocent captive, and cooked dinner for us. We both have the same favorite meal (couple goals!) which is a fried egg and avocado toast (simple), and from across the table, I watched as he devoured his. I was frozen in fear as I felt glued to my seat and any sudden movement would alert my captor of my desire to thwart whatever sinister plans were in his head. That beautiful, perfect, hypothetical serial killer head of his (the one above his shoulders, not below the belt). If I wasn’t so blinded by the immense wealth of love I thought he would supply me with, I would have been able to notice all of the faults he had….which…at that moment, I still couldn’t find…besides the serial killer thing (but still, people wanted to fuck Bundy). Focus. I had to focus. All I could think was “How am I going to escape?” The keys are in his backpack. There is only one exit that is in sight of both parties at all times. If he is prepared to kill me then he probably has weapons and tools prepared and –
“Are you going to eat?” He interrupted my thoughts with a sly smile. I looked down at my plate. Poison. That’s how he was going to do it. He poisoned my food. No….no. I watched him cook.
“I’m not very –”
“Try to pick at something. What about the toast?” Oh my god…it hit me….his angle. He has a feeder kink. He brought me out here to watch me eat and get off on it. Because how could anyone as perfect as him want anything to do with someone who looks like me, if not to utilize my physical appearance for their own ejaculatory purposes? This pervert didn’t want to kill me. He wanted to fatten me up like a hog and roast me with his cock used as the spit.
I wish I could say I had an epic takedown of my suspected murder. That I flipped the table, grabbed the keys, and made a daring yet successful escape; but alas, I found this revelation all too overwhelming. I felt my body moving in the direction of the bed as my mind was still fixated on his horniness towards my body fat percentage. I laid there, limp like the last biscuit in the basket that no one wanted to claim responsibility for and let my fate, whatever it may be, happen.
I woke up the next morning completely intact. To my surprise, I was not hacked to bits and stowed in a cooler in the back of a Toyota Tacoma, while Owen was on his way to a local market humming to some fuck ass song like “Life is a Highway” while driving on the highway. I had survived, and it was checkout day. Owen was already up and moving about our single room sanctuary, although when I looked around at it now, it didn’t have the same lust pouring out of its popcorn ceiling as when we first arrived.
I was being weird. I knew this because I said, “I am being weird,” and Owen sort of shrugged it off in a manner that politely agreed. We packed up the car with our luggage and cooler (that contained none of my bits) and began our drive back. Owen dared me to drink the rest of the wine bag I had brought, and, like a good little passenger princess, I obliged.
With a newfound drunken mental clarity, I then confessed to him my interpretation of the events of the night before. He took in each word I said and found it endearing. He told me it was okay, and all he wanted was for me to feel safe. Safe. I took in his response and let it simmer in the cave of my stomach. The flame was lit as I laid my pan on top of it. Safe. I felt safe. I could feel safe. So, I cooked his word and mistook its seasoning for flirtation, for love. I was finally fed. At this point in my life, safety and acceptance were represented to me as sex and romanticism. I could never be as vulnerable with someone as when I was naked – but that wasn’t how Owen worked, so I compromised.
A few weeks later, I told him I was in love with him. It’s laughable looking back on it now. He said that he loved me too…platonically, and that he wants me to be a part of his life forever…platonically. Now, when I meet a “perfect” suitor, I understand that it is often in my head. Nobody is perfect, and I can’t magically be perfect for someone else, as much as I’d like to be. Truly, I would.
I guess the lesson here is in the regret. Now, I take things slower. I say what’s meant to be said on the first date and still haven’t made it to the fifth, at least not in a truly romantic sense. Now, when I fantasize about the various strangers who pass me by while I’m sitting in a small, locally owned coffee shop, drinking the same simple cup of coffee, I understand that nothing is simple and a fantasy is just that: a fantasy. Some fantasies are good, and others convince you that you are being force fed for someone else’s sexual pleasure. At the end of the day, it is still a form of escapism. It is still a getaway.