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The first time I got the feeling that there might be something between us was the night we spent hanging out in your room. Half an hour later we were back at your place, your fingers were inside me and you were making me come on your red Ikea couch. Of course everything seemed perfect because what we had managed to do was compress a whole relationship into one week. I'm a thirteen year girl who lives in Indiana,I'm looking for a girlfriend or boyfriend. I was always really fond of you but never acted on it because you were my roomie and I was always dating someone. We stayed up all night, in our pajamas, watching Daft Punk videos, talking about life & music and our favorite CBC sitcoms from the 80’s (Beachcombers! I took you to your first house music party where you sat on the sidelines and just smiled at me as I unsuccessfully tried to pull you onto the dance-floor. We talked about our families, our favorite Douglas Coupland novels and our favorite episodes of The Beachcombers while looking out at the ocean, the mountains and the sparkling lights of the North Shore.
You humored my Grandpa as he told you rambling stories about WW2 and you drank scotch with my uncle. When you’re working with extreme time constraints, every moment, every look, every kiss that you share with that person seems so meaningful (maybe more meaningful than it really is).


I selectively chose to ignore the fact that you broke up with me in a really immature manner and instead focused on all the good things you did in the very short time we were together. You were this studious grad student who liked mountain biking and clothes made of polar fleece. What started off as innocent flirtation escalated to the point where being apart no longer seemed like an option.
It was the kind of sex that only goes down between two friends who have wanted to see each other naked for a very, very long time. Furniture was stained (I really hope you no longer own that red couch) & rug burns were inflicted. We had sex pressed up against the wall of my parents spare bedroom, your hand covering my mouth, my hand covering your mouth so that neither of us could scream out in pleasure. When I moved into The Co-Op, your bedroom was next to mine and we spent six months sharing a dingy bathroom & kitchen with our other room-mate. I was still very much the crazy party girl who had frosted blonde hair and wore red lipstick and shopped almost exclusively at Le Chateau, home of all things animal print, polyester and spandex.
When we weren’t trying to alienate each other, we were plotting elaborate practical jokes to play on our other room-mate.
But, as time passed and I dated other people, I realized that there were other guys out there who would open doors for me and buy me flowers and eventually really love me.


After dinner we ended up back at your apartment, having drinks, lounging around, listening to records and talking late into the night.
Better guys who wouldn’t casually dismiss 5 years of friendship with the click of a mouse. When the sun started to rise at 5am, there was this awkward moment after the music had stopped and the conversation had ceased and we were just kind of looking at each other. It was like old times except we were older, we’d both learned to dress better (bye bye polar fleece and frosted blonde hair) and instead of a dingy dorm room, we were hanging out in a luxury Yaletown condo.
Eventually, there was this awkward moment again where the music and conversation had stopped and we were looking at each other. At some point during the week I had this bittersweet moment where I realized that despite having dated and slept with a wide variety of people, no one in 23 years had ever really made me feel this way.



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