We’re Not Dating

But you asked if I’d work the registration table with you for the 10K charity walk/run. I’ll do anything when I have a crush, even on a Saturday morning. We’re armed with bottles of water, t-shirts, sign-up sheets attached to clipboards, and ballpoint pens that people unwittingly steal. That’s okay, we have a lot of them.

“I walked the race last year, but to hell with that,” you say. “It’s a bad knee week and I’ve been using my cane more than usual.”

“It’s a bad sight week, too,” I say. “I can’t make out curbs if I’m not on top of them and they don’t have a yellow line.” You know about my nearsightedness and the vitreou detachments that further blur my vision every so often. I know about your fibromyalgia that most doctors refuse to diagnose. Sometimes disabled people are expected to participate in events like this, risk health problems to be “inspirational.” To hell with that. We’d rather be somewhat intact, though people look at us weird when we walk with canes since we’re both under forty. It’s okay. I can’t see them well, and you say they can go screw themselves.

“Thank you for breakfast,” I say.

“Least I could do,” you say. You brought me a blueberry muffin and coffee, another reason why I’ve developed my crush over a series of Saturdays when I need to get out of my apartment. Sometimes it’s consumed by pixilated swordsmen clashing, clanking, grunting, and bleeding pixilated blood. I don’t understand how my roommate and their friends can invest so many hours in combat video games. They’re EMTs and I’d think their day jobs would provide enough adrenaline, but I go to the coffee shop to escape computer carnage.

I didn’t fall in love when I looked across the room since I couldn’t see you well. I had to get close enough to hear your voice, your laugh, then glance over to find you with your pink mohawk, plaid cape, and cane. It was different, and I was feeling very different since dragons and hand-eye coordination have never been my strong suite. How could I not swoon when I asked to share your table and you said you also hated video games? I thought Please be someone
I can be low-tech with.

“We should make bagels today,” you say. “But not blueberry. They turned very purple.”

“I liked them purple,” I say. “But maybe cinnamon sugar swirl this time?”

“My neighbor liked those ones,” you say with a nod. That’s the neighbor who used to be a baker and showed you how to make bagels by boiling them in water with baking soda to get that chewy-not-crunchy texture. We enjoy cooking for other people and sharing home remedies (who doesn’t swear by tea with lemon and honey), which makes us sound like grandmas. I want to ask you to be old before our time with me, feel like I’m in a romantic comedy but I’m not the
protagonist or love interest, just one of the throwaway characters like Date #2 in the closing credits.

“Please remember to leave the pen after you get your t-shirt,” I say to the next person who comes to register.

“Damn, I keep forgetting to remind them,” you say. “Brain fog again. I lose words.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “Since you remembered coffee, I can remember pens.”

“We get free t-shirts since we’re volunteers,” you say. “I want to bedazzle mine with sequins. Maybe after the bagels. Or tomorrow if we’re not too tired.”

“Pink and purple sequins,” I say because it would look good on the blue background. You rub one hand over the other. It’s humid and going to get more sticky. I wonder if your fibromyalgia (which most doctors claim you don’t have) is acting up again.

“Do you need anything?” I say. “Ibuprofen?”

You shake your head. “Took two before I came. Shouldn’t have more for a few hours.”

I nod, want to be caring but not overly so, offer the same kind of help I need when I have eyestrain headaches and you read the menu to me. I want to understand the intricacy of your pain on days when you are wincing, then make omelets for us. That is the most intimate and loving act I can imagine.

“I could rub your shoulders a bit?” I say when you hunch and relax, hunch and relax. “If you don’t mind?” I’m terrified of invading your space, of causing you more pain with the wrong touch, but you smile and say that would be nice. You dispense forms and pens. I rub gently and feel the contours of your shoulder blades.

I can’t tell you about the love stories sparking in my head. Society doesn’t care if disabled people are in love as long as they don’t procreate. Romeo and Juliet couldn’t have been disabled since the tale would be radically different. To spite their families they’d need to survive and have kids, or Romeo would turn into Rosalie and they’d adopt, or Juliet would become Jules and get artificially inseminated if they had the money, which they might not since being disabled
can be expensive. Maybe they’d create their own family collage, mentor queer kids online or at the library or coffee shop, and many more people would find a happily ever after.

If we don’t make bagels, maybe we’ll take a walk around the block with our canes. Not 10K but long enough, and you’ll let me take your elbow if the sun is bright and I need to close my eyes. Back at your place we’ll sit on the couch, drink tea, you’ll have a couple more ibuprofen, and we’ll play with the sequins in your box of beads and sparkly things, arranging them on our t-shirts. You’ll pause to rub your fingers, I’ll pause to rub my temples, but it will still be a version of happily.

Teresa Milbrodt has published three short story collections: Instances of Head-Switching, Bearded Women: Stories, and Work Opportunities. She has also published a novel, The Patron Saint of Unattractive People, a flash fiction collection, Larissa Takes Flight: Stories, and the monograph Sexy Like Us: Disability, Humor, and Sexuality. Milbrodt is an Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at Roanoke College, and teaches fiction, speculative fiction, poetry, and disability studies. She loves cats, long walks with her MP3 player, independently owned coffee shops, peanut butter frozen yogurt, and texting hearts in rainbow colors. Read more of her work at: http://teresamilbrodt.com/homepage/