PUNK PROSE: First Date by Allison Nadeau

First Date

 

We were walking in the woods at night in December. I knew when I first spoke to him that he’d let me be weird, which I appreciated, so there we were. The tree branches looked like emaciated limbs. It would have been terrifying if I’d been alone. He was wearing a varsity jacket, but he was rich and only played tennis which he forced me to do when he eventually decided he was going to hate me. I don’t think we held hands, but he offered me his leather gloves. It made sense that he used to ride a motorcycle. He was so hot I figured he probably wanted to kill himself sometimes. That’s usually how it goes. 

While I looked between tree trunks for ghosts, I told him about a dream I had where I stuck my head in an oven. And another where doctors were cutting my feet open to cure the Alzheimer’s I had. It’s because I’m on antidepressants. Oh my God, that’s insane, he said. I smiled at him and imagined what it’d be like to have him on top of me. He said, I used to have a therapist, but she died, and I’ve tried all sorts of medications but I don’t like them. One time he stood outside for an hour and held his arms in the air until he collapsed. On the weekends I thought about him drinking with the freshmen and spending time alone with another girl who wanted to fuck him.  

I could tell he thought it was sexy that I was five years younger than him. And he could make me a liar, immature and manipulative. But when he smiled at me I felt like scratching my skin off and I would do anything just to be near him. When we went back to his car that night, he drew a dragonfly on my forearm with a fountain pen he carried around everywhere. He had a sketchbook. He would later draw me much more beautiful than I actually am. When he wrapped his fingers around my wrist and pressed the ink into my skin, I deeply wished it was permanent. His hands were red. When I held them, I felt like my entire body was burning. Over time the sensation became familiar, looking him in the eyes and feeling afraid of what he might say to me. There was never much use in arguing. He always said, aren’t nineteen-year-old girls supposed to solve all your problems?  

It took a bit of staring—in his car, the heat making my eyes water—for him to kiss me. I think he was afraid of me sometimes. I liked that even more. I spent seven hours with him that night. I didn’t want him to stop looking at me like I was the most interesting and strange and pretty girl he’d ever seen. He was the worst person I’ve ever met. 

--Allison Nadeau