Zoetrope boy

The sadness begins creeping up in November.

Last December on the road to Los Angeles I texted you. I didn’t even know your name yet. I had you in my phone as “J——-.” The thought of making small talk with you now seems unattainable, it’ll never happen again, I can’t believe I once did it so nonchalantly—whether you even remember my name, I can’t say confidently, although I know you remember my face because I ran into you in a cafe (three times) last month, or maybe it was September, and you ran, ran out, or rather you walked out quickly, because Oh shit! it’s that girl from forever ago.

I met you at Cafe Zoetrope two weeks after I returned to San Francisco. What had happened- one night I was watching Lost In Translation, texting you, we talked about Sofia Coppola. You asked me if I had been to Francis’ Cafe, the Cafe Zoetrope, everyone has their own relationship with the Coppolas. No, I hadn’t been, and so there were our plans.

Imagine identifying as a lesbian for two years of your life, and suddenly one day you’re on the train, on the way to your first date with a guy in what seems like forever, because even before you identified as a lesbian, you liked guys but did not date any—the last time, you were 13, and does that even count?, and you are 18 now.

I could not eat that morning, in fact my stomach felt like it was eating itself, I couldn’t sit still, but your sporadic texts I received (the first one came after I woke up) excited me, I told myself to calm down but hell, my stomach was eating itself. It was maybe 2:00 pm, you were running late because some dishes broke, you had to clean them up and you had to choose what to wear (it was a black coat with skinny jeans, thinking back now I can’t imagine how much time it should’ve taken you to decide on that), I thought a lot about my outfit, looking back now it is funny because I do not dress like that anymore, though I still wear the same shirt, my favorite t-shirt, A Bout de Souffle, I thought it fit especially well since you studied film and so on.

I arrived early, I even had time to walk around North Beach, actually I was lost because I had never seen Cafe Zoetrope before, now I walk past it several times a month, appreciate its beauty, I ducked into a bakery to pick up macarons and asked the cashier where the cafe was. My god, when you walked through Zoetrope’s doors, I thought, he’s a Goddess! but wait, maybe that is wrong, I thought, I was still unsure of what adjustments came with being with a man—or a guy, a boy, sorry. So I settled with, oh, his legs and hair are quite nice.

The core problem is, I’ve always regretted that you were the first boy—had you been my second, third, fourth, etc., I would have identified your tricks, as I failed to do then… which led to sadness, because I liked you more than I should have.

It’s almost reaching December, which means one year since the first boy, my Zoetrope boy. There have been so many more after him. It is a little depressing, actually… I guess, how failed they have been, but after all, I am 19 now, who has anything solid at 19?, I may know a couple of people but the love they have is so foreign to me, I have never made love you know, I don’t know what it means, though I have been naked with a boy, I have never made love.