I remember seeing you walk into the grocery store, and remember wanting you to see me. I want you to see me ignoring you.

Liss.

I turn my back on you and wait for my lone banana to glide across the cashier’s conveyor belt to the slope at the end. I’d probably leave the banana out of the film version of this scene to be honest, the version I’m already directing in my head as it happens. The banana ruins the sexual tension.

Liss.

You keep calling my name, and I can tell by the awkward throat clearing of other people in the queue that they're not grateful for being a part of this. I stare ahead of me, grab the banana, and walk out to the car park, to the little car I bought with my 2020 tax return. I bought that car, aka Mavis, a slightly malfunctional Ford Focus 2005, with over a month left in BC and an overly foraged savings account - just one of the many idiotic things I did that summer. But without Mavis (or a slightly cooler car for the film version), I wouldn’t be writing this scene.

So, I get in the car.

Liss.

You walk towards me, guitar in hand, wearing a turquoise tank top and that ridiculous straw hat. I could’ve driven off then, but I just sit there, hands on the wheel, side-eyeing you. I scroll the window down, because it’s July and my car is an oven. But I’m also daring you to keep talking.

Come on, Liss. You slept with her first.

At that I clear my throat, and turn on the ignition, about to make a noisy reverse before you stick your hand through my window.

Wait!

I sit there, waiting, baking slowly like a sourdough loaf in my car-oven. Do you think you could give me a ride? I left my scooter up north.

I almost let out a laugh. I can’t believe that you think I’d do you a favour right now, but then this is typical you. I can’t believe that you’re ruining my dramatic exit by not taking my silent treatment seriously, but then when have you ever taken my emotions seriously. I decide the car ride would give me more time to douse you in guilt.

Fine.

I let you get in the car, and I reverse out of the space. I still haven’t looked you in the eyes, and I’m driving up the tree-lined road. I can’t remember which song is playing but I remember it being the wrong song for the moment, so I skip to a better one. I’m happy at the anguish I think I’m putting you through.

But then you start making small talk, and it’s clear that you’re not in anguish at all. You act like I’m not being dramatic, or unreasonable, and you don’t seem annoyed, or concerned. You just act like I’m a friend giving you a lift, like I’m not childishly ignoring you because you hooked up with the same girl I’d drunkenly rebounded with, just one day later. You don’t act like you whispered I’ll love you forever into my ear when I called you alone and crying in the back of Tarquin (my old car) on my birthday three months earlier. Like I didn’t cause a scene when I broke my necklace at the sight of you and Rachel making out behind her truck at the Farm party two weeks ago. I’m just someone giving you a lift.

So… how’s your new car treating you?

Pause

Well.

You just playing music from your speaker though?

Pause

Yeah, the car doesn’t have Bluetooth.

You could get an aux cord.

I could, yeah.

Pause

Pause

Mavis’ engine gives a deep grumble.

It doesn’t sound too good, you should put it into third gear when it gets steep, otherwise you’ll burn through your brakes.

Pause

(clears throat) Yeah I know.

Pause

I’d forgotten how infuriating it was to be in a car with you, someone who says he hates cars but has no problem relying on others to drive him around. Someone who has no problem telling other people how to drive their own cars.

Are you looking forward to going back to Europe?

Now I’m angry. Both at this reminder, and at your nonchalance. As if my whole life isn’t about to be uprooted, as if I’m not about to be forced away from the place I call home. I’m angry because I’m actually sad as hell.

Not really.

It’s another half hour drive up to your scooter, which you parked in a bush somewhere near the lake. The road gets narrower, and my turns get slower, but I’m aware that the speed has less to do with safety than it does with prolonging our time together. I’m angry at myself now, I was doing such a good job at being angry at you but now I suddenly want to kiss you. I want to kiss you even though you smell of sweat and have that silly straw hat on your head. I want to kiss you even though you lack the emotional intelligence to understand that I’m not just fucking overreacting, that it was a big deal. I want to kiss you so that I can know that the passion was once there.

It’s here.

You make me stop at an awkward angle. We’re right where the road starts to get steep again, and my brakes are probably weak, as you pointed out yourself. I watch as you wade through the ferns and through some salmonberry bushes to fish out the scooter you bought off Johnny after he drunk-drove it into a ditch and broke his ribs. The salmonberries are at their peak ripeness and some burst open as you move past them, staining your tank top. I want to suck the juice out of those stains. I notice you have cuts on your skin and I wonder if Rachel would suck the blood out of them.

Guess Rachel was busy then, was she?

I don’t wait for an answer, I know I’m being childish, but something makes me need to swim in all the pettiness. I storm off ahead, down towards the lake, knowing you’ll follow me.

Liss.

Why would you follow me if you didn’t care?

I’m at the edge of the lake, whipping off my clothes and diving in as I hear you get closer. I put my head under and hold my breath, hearing you call my name above as my hair floats around my face. You sound so far away. I make my way to the rock midway across and wait for you. You’re not naked like you’d usually be, you keep your underwear on this time, which I take as a sign that romance is definitely off the cards.

I think you’re about to say something meaningful, something that warrants my melodramatic build-up, but once again you turn to small talk. I suck you into this drama but you somehow refuse to participate, and that’s what drives me crazy.

But then you sigh, your frustration finally on display. You look at me, and I let my eyes stay on yours. I look at your lips and know that I want them, now, this instant. Let lust be a distraction from the confusion inside. You let me come closer, and my mouth is on yours but your lips are stiff, unmoving. I let my tongue taste the salt of your sweat in your beard. My heartbeat is erratic and all-consuming, a pulsing lust that I don’t understand. I feel your pulse and it matches mine, but then you push me away.

What do you want, Liss?

I dive back under, taking a deep breath with me. I want the oxygen to cleanse me of this feeling, of this intoxicating stupidity.

You know, Rachel actually has much better breath than you do, Dave, is what I say when I’m at the surface again.

I leave you then, I swim back to the shore. I don’t turn back around. I remember tasting my tears on the whole drive home. I trace my tongue past where they’ve fallen down my face. And then I burst into laughter.

I remember the text you send me that evening.

You’re not a lesbian, Liss. You just want to be one.