Page 23 of Knot Just for Show

The way she keeps righting herself after each unsure wobble—like one of those egg-shaped plastic toys that are weighted at the bottom, refusing to be knocked down; it brings me a sense of peace, of comfort.

“I like it. The way you talk. I don’t think it’s annoying. It shows that you’re a real person with a mouth that struggles to keep up with her brain, not a persona,” I reassure her.

“Well, I like the way you talk too, Lysander,” she replies, a sing-song-bounce in her voice.

“I can tell you’re clever, even though you’re not trying to show off that big brain,” she snickers, her Boston accent turning the word ‘clever’ into something closer to ‘clev-ah.’

Knowing that my elitist father would despise what he would categorize as an immediate identifier of middle to lower-class speech.

I push my big, round tortoise-shell glasses up the bridge of my upturned nose, only now stopping to imagine what Ursula might look like.

I can’t help but imagine the animal skin wearing woman, with the bright red bouffant hairdo and hourglass silhouette like Ursula’s cartoon namesake. It’s not a bad image, but somehow it doesn’t quite line up with the voice on the other side of the wall.

Strangely, I’ve never been much for any kind of archetype of feminine beauty when it comes to being attracted to women. Not much for the standards of attractiveness of most men either, for that matter. In fact, I’m not entirely convinced that conventional attraction is really my speed at all—as I’ve never really experienced being sexually attracted to another real person. Characters in movies, tv shows, comic books, anime, even a few pop stars here and there—but never another person who I might actually be intimate with. It didn’t help that when I tried to talk to my father about this, as a younger teen—he merely expressed how disgusted he was with me, and discouraged me from telling anyone else how I felt. For a long time, I listened to him. I didn’t tell a single soul for many years.

Perhaps it's the same reason that I don’t understand how people react to my appearance. One of the girls in my yearduring undergrad had told me that it was unfair how ‘pretty’ I was—that she wanted to ‘steal my lashes.’” Before then, I had never considered my lashes; fluffy, dark, and improbably long; to be something to be admired.

While in my master’s program, a member of my thesis consortium had casually said, “For you to be so gorgeous and such a weirdo robot is just my luck, isn’t it?” One night after she had lagged behind the rest of our study group in the hopes that something might blossom between us. She had assumed that I hadn’t picked up the subtext of her extending her stay—when I actually had been keenly aware of her intentions all evening…I simply hadn’t wanted to lead her on when I didn’t return any of her apparent affections. All the same, her words still sting whenever I recall them. I’m not an unfeeling robot, after all. I’m just a little bit different.

“You’re getting quiet again over there,” Ursula sing-songs.

“Sorry, sorry—I was just contemplating what you might look like, if we’re being honest.” I let the truth hang for a moment, worried I’ve mis-stepped.

“Ha, well… don’t think too hard.” Her laugh does a poor job of disguising her nerves and her distaste for my question. I can't say I blame her.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m not sure I’m the sort of person who cares about what you look like. I care about what it’s like to be with you, if that makes sense?” I try to allay her fears, but I’m not sure I’m doing anything other than possibly sounding slightly out of my mind.

“That makes sense. I read about that a bit, I think some people call it ‘demisexual’—like, you need to have some kind of established emotional intimacy before you get anywhere else remotely sexual,” she agrees easily.

I scribble down the word ‘demisexual’.

“Well, I like being with you. It’s easy,” I say flatly, because it’s true.

“So, does that mean you’d like to have a second date, Lysander?” she giggles from the other side of the partition.

“Yes, I do,” I answer, a rare smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

Chapter Eight

Ash

While the day has been full of surprises, I’m really dragging as I head into my final date of the day.

When I signed up to be on this show, it was about half because my agent and studio partner, professionally knownDJ Halcyon,said it would be good for me, a chronically in the studiohopeless romantic, to do double duty as publicity and a hell of a personal ad if didn’t find a match on the show.

While I’m successful and attractive enough, I’m also a packless delta heading closer and closer to 30. Agencies don’t love trying to place me despite my wealth and success, and I haven’t had much luck dating out in the ‘wild’.

I’ve now gone on more dates in the past eight hours than I have in the past eight months and I’ve got to say, I’m surprised that there’s been more than a few girls who I’m genuinely looking forward to talking to again.

There’s Brittney, who immediately started talking about her favorite club tracks as soon as I mentioned what I do for work. She’s more likely than not a seasoned party girl, which could be a turn-off for some dudes—but considering what I do for a living? It’s not actually a bad thing.

There was Suzi, the model—who had a super sexy accent. Brazil, Rio De Janeiro. We talked a bunch about how we love the beach, and how she’s always wanted to go to Ibiza to do a shoot so she can experience their gorgeous white sands and incredible nightlife.

Roxy, the pole and aerial artist, sounded cool—but like she’d eat me alive just as soon as going on a real date with me in the outside world.

I’ve written down the names and details of a few others, but honestly—I’m pleasantly surprised to be excited for a few second dates tomorrow.

I’m so checked out that it takes me a moment to realize that someone ishummingon the other side of the wall. My last date has already arrived, and I’ve been so zoned out—still and silent, that she doesn’t know I’m here.

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