I rushed through my dinner and sweated through my fundraiser playlist on my radio show so I could go cringe at about a dozen uniquely unfunny masturbation jokes, miss Mike (as in not see him because he wasn't there), and explain to Cape (who didn't wear his cape to perform) that using "spiked" as the punchline of a follow-up to a gay joke got more shocked groans than laughs because it implied S&M.
Watching the stand-up was more uncomfortable than fun because of the flopsweat you could hear as jokes died.
"Why are you so dolled up?" Said with a smile. And hair gel I'm not sure he knows how to use but I wasn't going to call him on it because I'm not sure how to use it, either.
Answer: for him, and for Mike, and for how my hair feels soft and light on my bare shoulders in that dress, and because I wanted to wear my kickass red shoes, and because it was still 85 degrees outside at 10:30pm.
And J, the tiny computer scientist doctoral candidate I know from robotics who likes to wear a giant beard and sunglasses with a checked blazer and the occasional utility kilt hugged me in greeting and told me I smelled delicious. I, uh, guess the new deodorant's working okay then.
I did run into Mike earlier, when we got to my dorm at the same time in the morning for different things (meeting a tutoree, grabbing a camera). It felt normal, especially the part when I punched his shoulder in parting, but it also felt like we're both terrified to do or say anything with more emotional depth than "Help! Help! I'm being oppressed!"
My brain insisted on opening a tiny box of celebration that has let out all the memories I've stored of Mike for new examination. Look! There, where you thought he was so adorable? He liked you, too! At the same time! Great. That's great, memory, really. Maybe if I chew on you enough you'll give me something useful.
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