On the drive to our date, I’m only made of nerves.
When I realized I was bi four years ago, I had to come to terms with the mere fact of my sexuality, and the thought of actually dating was overwhelming. As time went on, I grew more comfortable in my sexuality, and I was ready to try. Still, I wondered if it would feel different somehow, or if I would hear the nagging voices of my non-affirming pastors. Would I be haunted by a chorus of doubts? Would it feel right?
After I park, you greet me outside the restaurant. We only wait a couple minutes before our table is ready. You pull out my chair for me, smiling in a way that’s both chivalrous and mischievous. We exchange nervous, giggly pleasantries, then you don’t waste any time.
“So you said that you’re a Christian. What’s up with that?” you ask, like it’s the start of a 90s stand-up set. Panic floods your face as you follow up, “Not like in an a**hole way. I’m genuinely asking.”
I explain my faith as best as I can in fifteen seconds, and you talk about going to private, Catholic school through high school. We exchange stories of growing up religious and queer, Christian and inquisitive. I don’t know if I’m romantically attracted to you yet, but I know that I want to hear more of your stories.
A waitress with red hair asks for our order, and you greet her like a friend. You insist that we need to get the pretzel knot. It’s quintessential bar food, you say. I never object to warm bread, so we go for it. When the waitress walks away, you lean over and say that you’re a regular here, and you try to sit in her section since she’s the absolute best.
We talk about whether we believe in ghosts, coming out to our parents, and The Legend of Korra. We talk until my voice gets hoarse and before we know it, four-and-a-half hours have flown by. I say I probably need to go home. You say you’ll walk me to my car.
Once we’ve loaded up with our takeout containers, we head out; we’re both shivering and pretending that we’re not, but we get there soon enough.
I spin to look at you. “Thanks again for going out,” I say. “I had a great time.”
“Me too.” You take a step closer. “I’d really like to see you again, if you’d want to?”
I nod, smiling. “I’d like that.”
You take a step closer. I’m suddenly too aware of the fact that we’re both holding takeout containers, and one of yours is a whole bowl of soup. Mental calculations fly through my head, and I cannot imagine a scenario where you kiss me and don’t spill soup all over both of us. While you take the final step towards me, I stop you with a hug. Your arm around me feels like a question answered.
On the drive home, I think about the night, basking in the warmth of the evening. Only then do I realize that I didn’t have any doubts during the date, just more questions about you, and the only way it was different was how much more I laugh when I’m around you.
It doesn’t last, though. We go on a second date, and it’s good, but you realize that you’re not over your recent breakup. That stings for a couple days, but soon enough it fades into a memory. I start talking to someone new, and it seems so far away that it feels like it happened to someone else. But even with the sting of it ending, I think of that night as like a healing.
Tiffany Kajiwara graduated from Calvin in 2022 with majors in literature and writing. Now, she continues to live in Grand Rapids and works at Baker Academic Publishing as a marketing assistant. In her free time, she enjoys crocheting, thrifting, and psychoanalyzing cartoon characters.
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Here’s to more queer healing and growth <3