A boner, a quick look at Grindr, and a fuck. Something so ordinary yet dull if it wasn’t for the fact that you asked me if you could spend the night. Breakfast was strange, but different and you sent me a friend request on Facebook, Instagram, and a new dinner date.
Our love for food and Masterchef, rather than our love for cooking, joined us for dinner on a Sunday.
We went through laughing at Boris’ unlimited seduction, being pleasantly surprised by Vaquerizo’s comradeship, getting emotional with our beloved Castro’s expulsion, and falling in love with Paz’s calmness. Sunday after Sunday we would check Arana’s never-ending, cut-throat wisecracks on Twitter about every melodramatic situation in the show. Even though some nights I was defeated by Morpheus as I rested my head on your chest on the couch, Mondays would always start with eye booger, yawns, and you again.
Our dates had the best of aims: to end the week on a high note in order to start the next even better. You would drop by some nights in the middle of the week because you missed me, but your business trips kept you from turning it into a habit.
Two days after Masterchef’s finale, I woke up itchy all over and it didn’t stop until I applied Permethrin. I obviously shot myself in the foot when I told you about the new situation. I mentioned it to you in the most natural way possible because my feelings outweighed my anger. Good intentions don’t always bring good results, so you decided not to end your week in the same way you had been ending it lately. You took a rain check till the following Sunday, and then to an indefinite one.
Maybe your rain check correlates to the end of the show. Maybe it correlates with the fact that back our weeks were off to a great start.