Out of Season
Personal Essay by Lindsay Michele
A few texts.
Two hour-long phone conversations.
A plan for a Saturday date a week in advance.
A Christmas hello text that turns into an hour of texts that turns into Wanna meet up tonight?
Three hours of deep conversation at the bar.
One make-out session by the car.
I gotta go, I say.
But do you though? AJ says.
One make-out session in the car.
I really should go, I say.
I don’t want to be that guy, but really though? AJ says.
Three hours of sex at the house.
After the first set of orgasms, AJ buries his head in my neck, breaths into my hair. Quiet.
After the second set, he is looking for his clothes, smiling down at me on the bed.
You need to cover up, he says. Laughing. Or I’m not gonna be able to leave.
On my feet now, I kiss him—good-bye?
Another hour back in bed.
Finally at the door, I murmur, Saturday? Still?
Yes, he says.
On Saturday it’s raining.
He’s at the door by 11:30am.
Our hello embrace is tight. Long.
I make tea.
Three hours of deep conversation on the couch.
I’m hungry, I finally say. You gotta take me to bed soon, or I’m gonna need some lunch.
He laughs.
Complies.
After, we talk.
He is still inside me.
I run my nails up and down his back.
He strokes his fingertips over my eyebrow.
At the door, I say, Can we go on a real date? Will you call me and ask me out?
Is that what you want?
Yeah, I say.
We kiss.
Two dates.
Six hours of conversation.
Four hours of sex.
Five orgasms.
Sunday. No text no call.
By 3pm I decide to go ahead.
Yo, I write. You free Thursday night? Want to check out this comedy show?
Eight hours later. Still no reply.
But—but what about the data?
Even when it’s right, somehow, I’m still wrong.
The way I clock the data—in time, words, tenderness—must not be—I don’t know. Must not be it. Whatever it is. Or isn’t. Or I’m not.
I don’t even have his real phone number. He straight up told me. It’s some google voice bullshit he uses for dating. So what am I even thinking?
Monday 9am.
I’m sorry, AJ writes. Dealing with some stuff with my daughter. Give me a second on that.
Soon—or maybe not soon—I will have new data.
On the length of a second.
On New Year’s Day my best friend reads my cards.
Cut the deck, she says. What is something you want to let go of?
The need for affirmation, I say. I want to be more dependent on myself for my mood.
Cut the deck again. What is something you want to invite in to your life?
A real connection with someone who is just as complex and passionate as I am, a connection where it’s okay, it’s desirable, to be a lot. I want to bring my full self without apology and be with a man who really shows up.
She turns the cards. Present, obstacle, future.
The Queen of Wands is in a beautiful red dress with a wand and flowers. She is seated on a dragon who has banked his fire to create a throne for her. But if the dragon shifts, lifts, she will tumble. The Knight of Cups flies in on a broom, cape blowing in the breeze, thrusting forward a cup brimming with bubble hearts. In the water below, his shadow is the shape of a shark.
The Hermit sits alone by the fire, contemplating, her wand laid down on the earth, cat curled in a peaceful ball, owl gazing from a branch above.
Strength has her feet firmly planted in the grass, black hair blowing in the breeze, wand at the ready, but pointing down. A massive lion sits, mane thick and majestic, by her side, his fearsome muzzle resting gently in the palm of her hand.
It turns out that a second = 24 hours.
Hey, he says in his voicemail. It’s me. Uh, yeah. He laughs. Call me.
I’m not sure what we talk about, but twenty minutes fly by.
He apologizes again for the delay, and tells me a few details about the why.
More data.
I speak up. Give him some data in return.
I’d love to see you again soon, I say. I only have two nights a week off from my kids. Tuesday and Saturday. I would love to put you on the calendar.
AJ laughs. Oh, it’s like that?
I take a breath.
Look, I say. I am expressing my intention. I really enjoyed spending time with you. I would like to keep getting to know you. If you are looking for a girl who is going to be all coy and pretend, I’m not that.
No, no, he says. I’m just teasing. You’re dope. I really appreciate what you’re doing right now.
We are on the calendar. Tuesday in his town. Saturday in mine.
Twice.
How complicated is too complicated? Shouldn’t the start of something good, something real, feel easy? Or is that just rom com mythology?
I spend too much time on Instagram.
Social media feeds me a steady diet of dating platitudes arranged on a tidy plate alongside gym videos, perimenopause supplements, and Bay Area brunch recommendations.
If he wanted to, he would.
We make time for what matters to us.
If he’s not texting, he doesn’t want to talk to you.
Is Instagram wrong?
AJ cancels both dates.
Tuesday is too busy, he says. Too many moving parts. I’ll get too home late. I’ll be too tired to be good company. Too, too, too. I’m sorry, he says. Saturday. I’ll make it up to you on Saturday.
On Friday he tells me that a friend has decided to come to town for the whole weekend. A struggling friend, impacted by the LA fires. Their whole squad is going out on Saturday night to cheer him up. Sorry about that, he says.
Instagram tells me GET OUT NOW! Red flag central. If he wanted to, he would.
AJ doesn’t follow up these cancellations with, I really want to see you, when is your next available?
Nope.
He offers up his busy schedule, his conflicts, his other priorities.
His inability to show up.
Red flags all over the place.
And also. As much as my middle school rejection wounds buy into Insta’s advice, my unhealed trauma telling me that this man doesn’t value me, that I am fooling myself to believe there is something there, that no one will ever come for me with the fervor and consistency I desire, still, my calm brain, my mother-aunt-educator-daughter-friend brain chafes against reductionism. AJ is a full-time single parent with a big job and a commute. He lives a traffic-laden 25 miles from my house. He’s a professionally, emotionally, and financially stable member of a big community, frequently called upon for support in the form of empathy, advice, service, time, and money. These are all aspects of his reality that I value and appreciate, that serve to deepen our emotional and intellectual connection.
And also.
He is not very available.
We meet up the following Saturday.
Let me redeem myself, he says. How about I take you bowling?
I like the sound of that—redemption more than ugly shoes and gutter balls, but I am happy to let him plan, and we laugh our way through the evening’s activities.
Later, when he climbs out of my bed around midnight to find his pants, and socks, and hoody, all tangled in a heap on the floor, I protest.
Nooo, I groan, can’t you stay?
His posture stiffens and he narrows his eyes.
My daughter’s at home.
I know, I know, I mutter. But—but, I mean it’s already late anyway. Couldn’t you—
He’s shaking his head. I gotta go.
Well—okay, but could we plan ahead for another time? Like, does she ever have sleepovers? I just—I’d really like to spend the night with you.
He doesn’t crawl back onto the bed and kiss me sweet and tender.
He doesn’t say, I know baby, I want that too.
He doesn’t smile and offer next weekend.
Instead, invisible armor slides on with each item of clothing. An edge of something cold sharpens his voice when he tells me that’s not going to happen. That his life just isn’t like that right now. The absence of his big warm hands, wrapped around me just minutes before while he slid inside me, wrenches an ache from my hips, my skin prickling with a sudden chill.
Okay, well, let me know when you’re free, I offer. My voice sounds hollow and needy, echoing around the room without reply. Our kiss in the front hall is dry and brief, and I force myself not to cling around his neck. I close the door behind him and stand alone in my quiet house.
We only text a few times during the week. I try channel Instagram’s advice.
Don’t chase.
Let him miss you.
Men appreciate a little mystery.
On Friday he finally calls. He’s off work early. He wonders what I’m up to. I tell him I’m just leaving the gym and heading toward the house. Turns out he has a couple hours before he has to pick up his daughter. Turns out I have a couple hours before mine gets home from school.
Fuck.
This isn’t what I want.
Well. I do, I want it bad, it’s exactly what I want, but not only.
I do this dithering aloud with him on the phone, offering the opposite of mystery.
Double fuck.
I’d love to see you, AJ, but I don’t want to create a dynamic that isn’t what I’m looking for.
He laughs. I feel you, no worries. It’s all good.
We hang up. I drive. I reconsider. When do I ever have the chance to be spontaneous? And who am I fooling? I absolutely 100% want to fuck this man on a Friday afternoon.
I call him back.
Fuck it, I say. Come over.
You sure?
Yep. Just give me 10 minutes to jump in the shower.
I shave my legs so fast I’m surprised I don’t lop one off. We barely make it to the couch before he’s on top of me, and I’m wrapped around him like a vine. He scoops me up and takes me to my bedroom. I get him back out the door five minutes before the final bell rings at the middle school across the street and my daughter comes tumbling into the house, too busy sharing the latest drama from her girl group, and the unfair math assignment, and could I look at her split ends because she really needs a haircut, to notice that I am flushed, and disheveled, and glowing in an oddly radiant fashion for a random Friday afternoon.
I fantasize about our next encounter. I picture him first thing in the morning and last thing at night. His easy smile. His buttery skin. His engaged presence and active listening. His dynamic stories. His lips on my throat, strong fingers spanning my hips.
I wait for a text message, a call. I finally send something casual, but my message goes unanswered for 24, 48, 72 hours.
Sorry, he finally texts. Lots going on. I’ll call you later tonight.
He doesn’t.
The next day he texts me that he’s in the ER. He got bit by a dog.
Oh no, I reply. Are you okay?
Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little banged up.
That super sucks. Is there anything I can do for you?
He doesn’t reply. For two more days.
I can’t do this again.
Why is he texting me from the ER, but also comfortable dropping out of the conversation with no warning, no closing, no nothing? He leaves me hanging. Consistently. In fact, the only consistent thing happening is frequency of his radio silence. Who is he texting from the ER? Me? Or just somebody? Am I experiencing a sense of false compatibility when all he’s feeling is loneliness? A familiar sensation seeps through my body. I ache. I look hard at the reality of our interactions and come to some shitty conclusions.
I could be anyone.
I’m warm, friendly, sexy.
Great when he wants me.
Easy to set aside when it’s not convenient.
I can’t do this again.
I express myself in a lengthy text message, something along the lines of I get that you’re busy and that’s all good, but if you say you’re gonna call, you gotta call, or I feel bad and stressed, and I don’t think that’s too much to ask.
He replies in an equally lengthy text message, something along the lines of I get where you’re coming from, and you do deserve that, but that’s not something I can offer you with the reality of my life right now.
Why, I cry on the phone with my best friend, can’t I just be enough for someone?
Girl, she says, this man has such bad karma right now, he can’t even walk down the street without getting bit by a dog. This is so not you.
Maybe Instagram is right.
If someone can’t see my value, I don’t need to try to prove it.
A healthy relationship won’t keep me up at 3am questioning my worth.
Walking away from a person I care about who cannot meet my needs is one of the bravest things I can do.
But yeah. It’s never easy.
AJ is back.
They all come back.
I have two weeks off, he says.
The first two weeks of July, he says.
I have to be careful. Prepared. No catching feelings this time. He has been very clear.
I put this in writing at the behest of my bestie.
Girl, she says, write it down. Give yourself a little processing before and after.
I am writing it down.
He is being very clear.
Here’s what he says.
Would be nice to see you, but we’re dangerous.
We can’t keep our hands off each other when we’re near each other.
I don’t want to cause any misunderstandings. Things haven’t really changed for me. I still have a lot going on.
I honestly enjoy our conversations that end up all over the place. I enjoy you naked and my hands and everything else being all over you. The challenge was and is that you wanted (rightfully so) more than I could give you, given all the directions I’m being pulled in.
But.
That’s what I say. Yes, I say more. But mainly that.
But.
48 hours later he arrives on my front porch.
Hey stranger, I say.
I ease out of the lounge chair, tug down the cotton of the sheer dress caressing my thighs, and wrap my arms around him.
A few minutes after he orgasms (for the first time), his full delicious weight pressing me into the mattress, skin silk, bergamot floating sweetness into the air, my frame tiny and enveloped in the warmth of his thick embrace, I have the thought that I am going to marry this man.
Fuck.
No.
I’m fine.
I’m so much better than fine.
My summer lover. Our two weeks in July.
We have the melt. Boneless and slick, we are slide and sweat, lips and tongue, smooth heat, the press and flex of buttery jazz in a smoke-filled club.
When he leaves, I will float through the rest of the night, his delicious scent tangled in my hair.
For now, he stays wrapped, face buried in my neck, limbs tangled, and we talk, his palm warm against my ribs, thumb at my waist, tracing the ridge of my spine.
We talk.
Close.
Eyes. Lips. Breath.
We missed most of winter. All of spring.
Maybe that doesn’t matter.
Maybe this is just this once.
A piece of me mourns.
Could have, should have, might have been, might still be.
When I shift to straddle his lap, he looks up at me.
Why are you so sexy? he asks.
I smile, and wind my hips, dropping my breast to his lips.
We move again, slow, deep, quiet.
After, I tuck into his chest.
What are your favorite scents? he asks.
I bury my nose in the rich velvet of his skin. Will he bring me some of his homemade body butter next time? Citrus, maybe. Or bergamot.
Next week.
When he comes back.
My summer lover.
Two weeks in July.
After earning an English Literature degree in San Francisco, Lindsay Michele spent ten years in the classroom, teaching teenagers how to write. Since completing her MFA in Creative Fiction from Mills, she focuses on her own craft, and supports other writers through her business, Finesse Editing. Lindsay is the recipient of the Amanda Davis MFA Thesis in Fiction Prize, and the Melody Clarke Teppola Writing Prize in Fiction. She recently completed her first novel, and is hard at work on the sequel. You can read her essays at Herstry, BULL Lit Mag, 100subtexts, Cagibi, and Bookends Review, and her fiction at Drunk Monkeys, Half and One, Remington Review, Stardust Review, Taborian, and Vocivia.
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The tarot reading early on (especially the shark shadow under the Knight of Cups) foreshadows everything that follows so perfectly. That imagery about how he presents himself versus what's lurking below is chef's kiss level symbolism. I've been in situations where someone's availability doesn't match their words, and the way the piece tracks that dissonance, from the intial spark to the eventual realization, felt painfully familar.