Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood

            “Take me out. On a date.”

            He scowls. “I know I don’t have to.”

            “I’m aware this isn’t . . .” I start to tell him that I know it’s not like that between us. That he doesn’t need to take me out. That the sex was excellent, and even though I’m sore and sleepy and possibly all orgasmed out, I’d be happy to have more. With him. If he’s interested. I’m familiar with the concept of friends with benefits. Bed buddies. Frenefits. Fuckfriends. But then I remember the weekend. Watching Star Wars together, drinking Sazerac. This friendship of ours is older than the benefits, even if just by a few hours, and I’d be happy to spend time talking with him. Plus, he probably has no one to try vegan restaurants with. I’m the same in Bethesda. Yeah, that’s why he’s asking me out. “Actually, that sounds amazing. Do we need a reservation?”

            He lifts one eyebrow. “It’s a vegan restaurant in Texas. We’ll be fine.”

            I know how this is going to be: Levi will get to work out of his system whatever’s left of his years-old attraction toward me; I will finally get to have some decent sex; we’ll both get to do so without the pressure of being in a relationship and the disastrous stickiness that always happens when you let yourself care too much about someone. Tonight’s dinner is not going to be a date—just a meal between two horny friends who happen to share dietary preferences. Still, I find myself putting more care than usual into my appearance. I choose a thin rose-gold septum ring, my favorite piercings, and classic red lipstick. I curl my hair to fall in waves down my shoulders. I’m ready well before Levi’s supposed to pick me up, so I go wait on the balcony.

            Shmac has finally gotten back to me, apologetic for having been offline for the best, then worst, then best weekend of my life.


SHMAC: STC is grasping. Everyone knows you have no financial interests and are supporting #FairGraduateAdmissions because you believe in it.

                MARIE: I hate what they said about fair admissions being impractical. Who cares? We can and must do better.

                SHMAC: Orally.

                MARIE: ???

                SHMAC: *Totally.

                SHMAC: Sorry, speech to text. I’m driving.

                MARIE: LOL!

                MARIE: Where are you going? And, does it have to do with your best-then-worst-then-best weekend? And does that have to do with The Girl?

                SHMAC: I’m taking her out for dinner.

                MARIE: djhsgasgarguyfgquergqe

                MARIE: (That was a keyboard smash, in case text-to-speech is failing you)

                SHMAC: It was, thank you.

                MARIE: I’m soooo happy for you, Shmac!

                SHMAC: I am, too. Though she’s still a bit skittish.

                MARIE: Skittish?

                SHMAC: For valid reasons. But I don’t think she’s quite ready to admit it to herself.

                MARIE: Admit what?

                SHMAC: That I’m serious about this. That I’m in it for the long haul. Or at least for as long as she’ll have me.



            I frown. Wait—isn’t the girl in a relationship? There’s no long haul unless she divorces, is there? I want to ask, but I wouldn’t want Shmac to think that I’m judging him for taking up with a married woman—I really don’t, especially since her husband sounds like someone I wouldn’t mind pushing down the Eiffel Tower stairs. I consider telling him that I, too, am going out for dinner—with Camel Dick, no less—but I hear a soft noise.

            A little ball of red and gray is hovering in midair around the feeder, pretty wings beating happily at a fluttering rhythm. The first hummingbird of the year. “Hey, beauty.” He sticks his thin beak into one hole and leaves before I can take a picture. I watch him fly over the parking lot and notice Levi’s truck pulling up.

            I run downstairs like I’m eleven and heading to the splash pad. “I got my first hummingbird!” I say excitedly, climbing into the truck. Levi has barely finished parking. “Red throat! I didn’t get a picture but they’re territorial, so he’ll be back. And I’ll have the coconut-ginger chickpea soup! My sister says that it’s uncool to read restaurant menus online, but I fully embrace my obsession with food. . . .” I stop. Levi is staring at me open-mouthed. “I have hummingbird shit on my face, don’t I?”