You met the girl online, on one of those dating sites that asks you a long series of questions about how you feel about messy rooms and vegan food and bondage and politics. This feels true when you begin to chat through the messaging service on the website.
She asks good questions, responds thoughtfully to yours, has impeccable grammar. You want this so badly it feels physical. So many things you will have to explain to this girl before you can have that ending-sealing kiss, which fades to black and opens back up with wedding flower petals falling around your faces, clinging to your hair as you bare your ecstatic teeth at each other. You remind yourself that the last relationship you were in was also a result of terrible loneliness, that when the man proposed two months in and immediately after sex, him kneeling naked at your feet in bed, you realizing why people usually proposed with clothes on because he looked so vulnerable and ridiculous, you said yes anyway.
Because you believed he really was the only one who would want to be with you. He made this feel true, too. Never said it, but made it clear in the ways he became frustrated with you and how you needed him to be your eyes. With him accusing you of trying to attract everyone at the bar if you wore a skirt to meet your friends. With him refusing to speak to you for hours if you took a shower without inviting him to join you. So good. Wendy Elizabeth Wallace is a queer writer with vision loss who grew up in Buffalo, New York, a city she will talk about for hours if you let her.
Currently, she teaches English in Connecticut, and writes when her dog is not demanding walks. She is the co-founding editor of Peatsmoke: A Literary Journal. She met the good people who are willing to suffer through her rough drafts at the Purdue University MFA. Have dinner. You decide to go for it, set up the date.
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