Though Gilmore Guy lives
on a busy block and it was Friday night, I did show up wearing pajamas. I wore
my favorite old soft pair, the ones I usually wear after the beach when I want
to feel femme-y and relaxed and posh—black with purple, line-drawn lilies,
stretchy but with pretty, sheer trim. Underneath, I had on a regular good black
bra and one of my few pairs of undies that doesn’t go all the way up. (Confession:
Though it’s hard to imagine anybody reaching around inside them, I really like
wearing briefs. I wish they weren’t so stigmatized! Darn you, Bridget Jones! Although
come to think of it, they really didn’t hold Bridget back, did they?)
I didn’t know which bell
to ring, so I texted and he came down. I’d broken a sandal-strap on the way from
the car, so I had to awkward my way up the steps. His (their) apartment was impeccably
clean, with a feeling of the midcentury about it, like Mrs. Maisel’s apartment
but not so fancy. The walls were painted a warm, vivid orange, which should
have been hideous but was not.
Though we’d talked all
about sex already, including the awkward testing talk, there was a lovely tentativeness
between us—it’s nice that no matter how worldly anyone gets, the time before a
first kiss is so often fizz and jangle, innocent and silly and new. It’s a wonderful,
excruciating feeling, and I wonder when it will happen again.
His alcohol selection
rivals my pen collection (and my Instagram feed) in terms of pure (artistic,
one hopes) obsession. I handed him the mint from my garden, which I had
forgotten to wash. His mojito-ing process was LONG, and he got sidetracked a
few times having me taste fancy things I hadn’t had before. I noticed the sprig
of pink silk-flower butterflies in a vase on the table, the same dollar store
ones I use in my street art. I took it as a good sign.
His living room was warm
and full of pillows, festive with street noise from the bar downstairs. The
room very clearly belonged to Gilmore Lady, but could have equally housed Max
Medina. I scanned the bookshelves (mostly philosophy) wondering if their book
collection was merged—I mean, of course it was, right? His DJ equipment was in
there too, though he said he hadn’t used it in quite a while.
We watched the Demi September
21 videos (Seriously, google it, “electrolemon September”) and then settled in
for the Gilmore Girls.
“Stars Hollow looks so
different,” he said, and filled me in on facts I’d forgotten about how things
changed after the pilot. I was soooo happy to be starting my yearly rewatch,
next to this gorgeous man, with a bespoke mojito in my hand, proud of my mint
and swoony with good luck.
Unsurprisingly
for two switches, it took a little effort to figure out who would put their arms
around whom. I wanted to wrap him up, take him, cocoon him protectively, but he
did that for me instead.
Probably
about ten minutes into the Stars-Hollow-is-so-different pilot, I looked up into
his face and it was easy. It felt
natural and right, as if we had been kissing for our entire lives. His mouth
was soft, yielding but also insistent. Our faces, our mouths, we fit together
and the night clicked into place. Our fate, at least for the next few hours,
was sealed.
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