Any X Me ([romance] [horror] part 1/3 exclusive reddit)

 

*He* *was* *quite* *possibly* *deformed,* *in* *a* *way* *not* *even* *he* *recognized,* *by* *the* *crushing* *weight* *matters* *of* *unspeakable* *vice* *bear.*

 

**—Part 1—**

 

Your face is white canvas. Its plain symmetry cosmetics render dazzling. The gap between both eyes is rather wide, but in some telling, suggests intelligence. You draw a catcall on occasion, or a bell from the biking food couriers. Unlike most modern ladies sporting outrage at such toxicity, you don’t mind it—when the painter’s aren’t in. And because most women reading this resent you already, you offer them an olive branch:

 
“I’m fat. I’ve always been fat.”

 
Good. Now that you have their respect, talk about Henry (let’s call him Henry). Henry by the numbers:

 
– 6’2”
– 190
– 755
– 95k
– 2020 S5
– [?]

 
The last and most important figure you learn as circumstances demand. Do you understand?

 
“Yes master.”

 

——————————————————————

 

It’s the top-left corner of Chicago’s famed Loop fitting this ever-evolving piece named *River* *North.* Zoom in. An energetic neighborhood of shuttered and featureless warehouses no longer, its society provides a covetous culture. Luxe this, posh that, clubs, and pricey glow ups. Acclaimed eateries. Your residence.

 
On the first Friday of summer, Covid-19 leads dining outdoors onto abutting streets. How soon a hit with diners the city council hints of the change as permanent. Street segments crowded with restaurants are closed off entirely, and buttressed at each end with concrete barriers. It’s at one of these avenue tables you sit, alone, over a discolored yellow line, under an empty night sky, six feet from the nearest table, pleasantly wind, surrounded by locals and visitors alike, fiddling with your phone, restless, when our next creature makes contact:

 
*”Running* ? *late.* *U* *there* *yet?”*

 
Strike one. Bad start bad omen. No *sorry?* Then no sense in reinforcing his discourtesy with a reply. Let the silent rebuke eat into him. And with this moral high-ground established, one leg crosses the other, and from the table for two’s perfect white linen rises your lemon water glass, cold against suede berry lips.

 
Then…the sound of a bicycle cassette. It clicks slowly (being walked?) approaching from behind. There’s enough space to park it along the dining table, upright, on its kickstand. A Trek, with a custom paint job. “Psychedelic marble,” he tells the waitress of the scheme later, “Nine grand, picked it up from the Waterloo factory, in Wisconsin.” A Google search that night confirms this price accurate. But what a paradox you frantically observe! His leanness is certainly a cyclist’s, attenuated, but his muscles are of a CrossFit origin. He wears a mask, and when it peels off, you touch the edge of a rare euphoria. Gone from the dating app pictures you scrutinized are his beard, no oversized ski trip gear to hide anything anymore. *Potential,* as you’d filed him under in a pleat of your mind’s portmanteau, *realized.* By the time you’ve made formal (shaking hands) and sit back down, your love handles must’ve grown, and tugging at the tails of your v-neck blouse make it worse. Silk isn’t kind in this regard. But it’s only epinephrine amplifying girth’s pressures. Because you were completely honest on BumbleBee, your profile pictures. Full body shots. Recent too. Your hair and makeup are on point. Clothes never worn. How much more angling to these cups before your tits splatter on the table? There’s nothing to be ashamed of, he’s seen you, he swiped right—chillax. His first real words (his post-introduction words) spread a flush over your face, and you crash deeply through the hatch of an uncomfortable atmosphere:

 
“You’re thirty-four.”

 
“I beg your pardon?”

 
Tom Ford’s cologne goes rancid on him. Strike two. It’s stunning how quickly the jerk effaced his own beauty. Most bothersome is his cozy body language. It won’t show the least bit of self-reproach. He’s the date a friend’s friend tells you about, not the type of date you end up on. But…

 
He’d guessed right. You are thirty-four. And besides being possibly (no not *possibly,* certainly) the rudest opening line anyone’s used on you—or anyone you’ve known—on a date, its genesis begs untoward questions. And just before fighting back:

 
“I’m sorry,” he says, what for an instant looking away, gathering his battering ram tipped with the steel head of a goat and sieging again, “Your parents named you Halley, with two L’s.”

 
Yes, that’s your real name, not a profile pseudonym. You were adopted as an infant. And at age thirty-four, you’re not sure what’s oddest: the fact your foster parents never told you [that you were adopted], or the fact you know and never told them. But for whatever reason(s), you never dealt with the emotional consequences adoption wrought on similar kids. A testament perhaps to the foster parents who raised you. Nevertheless, your biological parents named you Halley.

 
“It’s a really charming name,” Henry says, “Especially since I figured you were named after the—“

 
“Good evening!” the waitress inserts herself just then with a megawatt smile and rehearsed tongue: “[A]nd I’ll be looking after your table.” Her fast slender hands dispense paper menus trimmed in gold foil. The *du* *jour* items she promotes dutifully, breaking character to chat about Henry’s overpriced bike. Then reuniting with the occupation, she asks about drinks while you both think things over. You prefer wines white, sweet, they finish cleaner than reds. She scribbles and Henry orders a rusty nail, an aberrance of scotch and spiced honey blend. Next she hastens off, and in the same motion—where only you can see her beyond Henry’s shoulder—whips her head around enough to wink (approval?). Earlier you asked for lemon water with one mint leaf, and you both bonded over manicures; hers a tri-color job resembling Mark Rothko’s No. 61, which hangs in the Art Institute one mile east. Yours the same—same River North salon.

 
“You,” Henry points the word softly with his index finger, “were named after Halley’s Comet.”

 
It’s hard to resist not burying your face in both palms. “I wasn’t named after a space rock.” Strike th—

 
But your date, he’s convincingly confused. “The last time it passed by earth was March,” he queries, “in 1986?”

 
Boom. You’re a Pisces, that much is on your dating profile. You were also born in 1986. And never once did it occur to you—or emerge in any conversation—that this was possible. Complete blind spot. It’s hit full-blown and edged in red. The likelihood of Henry being wrong approaches zero the harder your mind races the facts.

 
“Don’t tell me you didn’t know?”

 
You heard him, but make no sign of it. You’re thinking above the street noise now, staring into the spotless linen, mumble-listing reasons for such ignorance. Until you release a sudden burst of purging laughter. When you look up, Henry’s dual green gemstones twinkle. The steel goat’s head has splintered heaven’s door.

 
The drinks arrive. And so has an imperishable first impression.

 
“For what it’s worth,” Henry tastes his aperitif, “that *space* *rock* is one beautiful blur of light.”

 
The rumble of what comes for that hole he’s made in heaven’s door. He hasn’t a clue.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/mfntr7/any_x_me_romance_horror_part_13_exclusive_reddit