Missed Connections by Tamara Mataya

Monday off as well—a much-needed mental break from Inner Space. Realizing how tense my shoulders are, I decide to head to the bathroom for a hot shower before my second cup of tea.
    Dad’s prescription can’t be filled until Monday morning, so I’ll pick his pills up and take them to him Monday afternoon, just in case. It wouldn’t be the first time he didn’t have enough and went without for a day or two, worried about inconveniencing me—which is ridiculous. I would do anything for him.
    The water gently pounds the knots from my shoulders and back, but it’s way too hot, so I turn it down to tepid after a few minutes. Being a paralegal had me chained to a desk, which is hard on the body, but I wasn’t doing load after load of laundry all day like I am now. It’s the folding that sucks more than anything, but I’m faster at it than when I started. Not only that, but I’m constantly navigating unfamiliar territory, worried about what misstep I’m going to make.
    My wardrobe, my opinions on feminism, dryer sheets, and dishwashers… More often than not, I have to be on full alert for potential land mines with my bosses. Despite my research into energy work, I don’t know the rules yet, and Ziggy and Fern are so different from me. They’ve noticed my tension and encouraged me to get massages from them, but the thought of either of my bosses or my coworkers getting me naked and rubbing away my tension weirds me out. Some lines can’t be crossed, and I’d like to keep it professional.
    Maybe not with yummy Blake…but he’s still a coworker and off-limits. Why are all the guys I could be into off-limits to me?
    I dry off before wrapping the towel around my hair and walking to my bedroom naked. Another perk of living alone. Not that Pete would have cared, but I’m not an exhibitionist. Besides, just because you’re besties doesn’t mean you need to parade around naked in front of each other. There’s such a thing as oversharing.
    I have three glorious, hippie-free days before me, and I’m going to yoga-pant my way through them like a boss. I pad back to my computer, now dressed, and look through the job postings for something a little better suited to me, but there’s still nothing.
    Might as well head back to my favorite place.
Eye Contact Extraordinaire
    A hot guy in a business suit totally eye-fucked me at the bodega last night.
I was caught in your gaze as we left the movie theater last night.
    Not me. Damn.
Maybe we can share popcorn and our own matinee sometime. Tell me what movie we saw and what I was drinking.
    I like how people leave instructions like this, but sometimes they’re so vague I doubt the person involved would remember, even if they were interested. “We met at the Summit bar. You had a brunette friend; I had a friend with a green hat. Would have loved to get to know you better. Tell me what my friend was drinking.” Like, what the hell is that? I pay attention to what people say , not what they drink. Especially strangers. And if I like you, I’m not paying attention to your friends in minute detail—though, if two people were really into each other, I’m sure there’d be other ways of establishing identity.
    I move on to the next ad.
Not too late for us. It’s been way too long since I’ve gotten to use your nickname. We keep going around and around, breaking up and reuniting.
    Not me then; I don’t recycle exes—they’re exes for a reason.
So many amazing memories. There could be so many more if you’d let me back in. You’d be proud to know I haven’t crashed my way into any cabbies this year. Every day, I wake up hoping to find you on my doorstep, knocking to get back into my life.
    Next!
If Only You Knew
    There are a lot of ads like this, from someone the person knows. A lot are from strangers, but the ones where the admirer is someone in their life really make me sad. To go through life wanting someone you know to the point that you’d write a Missed Connection