Dating / Kate

I blame this one on summer, sunshine, and Blue Moons

There’s an interesting phenomenon that happens during the summer in D.C. You go from being cooped up in the winter with limited socializing, to the sun finally reemerging, and with it, the uptick in drinking. Those hormones come out of hibernation and start raging.

DFMOS become MO’s with anyone above 6’0 who keeps your attention long enough to buy you that Blue Moon and hand it to you while it’s still icy. That’s exactly what Scott did for me. He passed me a drink, I was hot, it was cold, and I was hooked.

Scott was a southern boy with no charm. It wasn’t as much a relationship as it was relations– there sure as hell was no ship. Or a boat. Or a canoe. Or a raft. Let’s just say that if Tom Hanks would have taken Wilson out on whatever structure we had, he wouldn’t have made it past the first wave.

He was getting over his long-term girlfriend and I was simply getting over the winter. Though we only hung out a total of four times, it was as volatile and messy. He would hold my hand and blow me kisses, then tell me how disgusting my nails were. One time he kissed my forehead and asked me to go home with him and when I said no, he replied “I live across the freaking* street, are you kidding me?” (*not freaking).. It upset me, but I kept telling myself that this was one of those casual DC summer flings and that his words didn’t matter.

They did.

July fourth I saw him across the bar with his ex-girlfriend. It had been a few weeks since we last spoke so I assumed they had gotten back together. From the bottom of my heart, I was happy for him. I don’t know how she handled his faults that had bothered me so much, but if he had found someone that would be able to appreciate all those insecurities and make him feel whole, I really wanted that for him.

And with my sudden realization of happiness for him (plus my mild intoxication), I walked up and said hello.

Scott looked at me straight in the eyes and said, “Don’t talk to me, you bitch.” He didn’t break eye contact. He meant it.

I had never experienced someone looking at me with such tenacity and utter desire to hurt me. It caught me off guard. I turned around and started crying. I bawled. I bawled at a bar, while everyone around me was day drinking and celebrating America. I cried because someone I did not care about, someone who I was trying to “keep things casual” with had found out how to hurt me and break me, and had accomplished that. So, I left.

Not much happened after that besides Lilith sending him the most badass text message ending with “Happy Fourth, Asshole.” Victory was ours.

I saw Scott a couple weeks ago at a bar. I wasn’t the most sober I’ve ever been, so when he approached me and started telling me how great med school was going for him, I lied and said I had applied to law school (I did not) at Georgetown (nope) and got in (solid no) and that things were great (they’re ok.) As soon as the conversation died down I turned around and found myself a 6’2 New Yorker. He bought me a beer and we said goodbye to winter.

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