Not All Hookups Result in Fireworks

July 4, early 2000-something.

Patriotism was on full public display in my Midwestern college town. Newly single and not happy about it, I lost myself in a parade of sunburnt beer bellies.

I’d been self-medicating with Blue Moons and ice cream sandwiches all day.

“What could be worse than this,” I thought.

Later, my friend Steve dragged my sad ass to the fireworks in an attempt to cheer me up. We rested our heads on a frayed blanket and he offered breakup support throughout the light show.

“You’re better off.”

“Look. A sizzly one.”

“She wasn’t right for you.”

“I love the ones that flash.”

Maybe it was the buzz of alcohol, but the company was good, the finale was grand, and I was starting to feel like a new me. I deserved to have a good time, damn it.

So Steve and I went to the gay bar.

It wasn’t long before July 4th sparks flew. Her name was Wendy. She worked at FedEx and looked like Sheryl Crow. Kind of. Minus the six-string, plus khaki shorts long enough to be a six-year-old’s pants. She was 31 — an older woman! She approached me with Kanye-level confidence.

“Wanna beer?”

Of course I did. She bought me a Bud Light, I ditched Steve, then we played a round of pool. Over clinking balls and loud music, her wingwomen threw rave Wendy reviews:

“Wendy’s the shit.”

“She likes you.”

“She cooks.”

This girl was starting to sound pretty good. My ex didn’t cook.

“She wants to hang out later.”

Bye Steve.

The first red flag was the array of lighthouses. Her place was filled with all sorts of shiny beacons that usually signify you’re at grandma’s or a beach town Bed & Breakfast. There were framed Thomas Kinkade-y “paintings” of lighthouses on the walls. 3D magnets on the fridge. A towering Lego set. Ceramic figurines.

Her apartment looked like Gilligan’s condo once he made it off that darn island.

Maybe I could get past the lighthouse thing. I wonder how she photographed. Could I convince my friends I was dating Sheryl Crow?

We entered her bedroom, and I found out exactly how she photographed. I was greeted with a massive collage of photos of her and…her sister? It had to be her sister. A woman she was clearly very close to.

“That’s my ex,” she said. “We just broke up.” Shit. Not her, too.

I should’ve left then. Instead, we did it. Her ex looked on, a million smiles glued to her million cutout faces. The room was lit by the oscillating beam of a tiny lighthouse nightlight.

Wendy called a few days later. I told her I’d gotten back with my ex. I hadn’t. She said she was thinking of doing the same.

I unwrapped an ice cream sandwich.

Photograph from Jacquemus via Opening Ceremony

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