You’ve always loved
the lighting in your bathroom.
It never seems to judge when
showing you the flaws to be covered.
It graciously helps with the easy blending
of focus group-named colours.
Tonight you’ve decided to employ
Victoria’s most gravity-defying of secret.
Tonight is important.
You are going to show and tell him
that you are out of his league.
Again.
You chose his favourite colour
red
for the dress.
But the reasons are becoming blurred.
To show him what he’s missing?
To make him miss what you are showing?
You throw your shoulders back
and look at your reflection.
“I am out of his league.”
Still, you hate that you worry
that he is a little smarter than you.
And that he is a little kinder than you.
You hate how sure he is.
You hate your hips.
You’ve never had trouble attracting men.
Like horny moths to a faux-slutty flame.
“I’ve dated suave men. Accomplished men.”
Then a voice scoffs in your head
about how that has been working out for you.
You hate that the voice is his.
You hate even more that you can recognize it.
He once told you that “relationships end up
where they are supposed to end up.
On the sea of platonic.
Or the rushing rapids of romance.”
And then he laughed at his own cheesiness.
And you mocked, “Relationship?”
And he laughed at you. Warm. Knowing.
You love-hated that.
Curiosity sets in.
“I bet he’s thinking about me right this moment,”
as you adjust your hair one more time.
And then silent abject terror.
What if he isn’t?