not a relationship, not a situationship

a secret third thing...

de pijp, amsterdam

He’s treating me to dinner and I’m jealous of myself, reveling in this car crash of a night under the hues from the burgundy light reflecting on the antique table and in his eyes. Legs crossed, sheer dress, soft entourage, good wine. I picked the restaurant from the Michelin guide, perfectly tucked away in an unpretentious postcode. It’s only a matter of time until this place has its viral moment on TikTok, but for now it’s quiet and tasteful, just how I like it. The server’s accent is unmistakably Greek, so I surprise her with ευχαριστώ πολύ as she pours the wine, to which her face lights up with genuine amusement. Knowing a maximum of 10 to 15 words in every language and being able to pronounce them accent-free is my favorite party trick because it never fails to work in my favor.

Twenty jokes, three courses, and a couple more glasses later, some clandestine kissing exchanged in between, laughter, all the vigorous laughter, the track of time or my name are not of any interest to me. Now he’s spoon-feeding me dessert, clumsy in the best manner, which is something no one’s done before, at least never so innocently at the precipice of arousing, so my whole body proceeds to melt onto the wooden floor in tiny droplets — I’m no different from the candle illuminating our handholding. Athena —now that we’ve learned our server’s name— keeps looking over giddily and I’m not sure if she’s happy for me, second-hand embarrassed, or, most probable option, just trying to do her job. I get the urge to yell “Actually, we’re NOT a couple!” over the tables, but even five glasses deep I’m aware I’m not the central character here and no one cares what we are or aren’t. Even I don’t care: this is everything I love bottled into one evening and stamped by its inevitable ending. Fine dining, a well-dressed lover with a basketball player constitution, and the promise of a grand finale. He knows me too well, which is scary, getting the check and throwing my coat over my shoulders with a gentle brushstroke touch, awakening the obsequious in me. We’re a puzzle piece. I’m a sucker for all things physical and unspoken, so now we’re leaving. Together, of course.

belleville, paris

I haven’t slept all night, what a waste of a hotel room. Tossing and turning, turning again, posing in the mirror, arching my back like I’ve got OnlyFans due in the morning, studying my pores, sucking my stomach in to reveal any evidence of abs (there is none), putting lip gloss on, scrolling on my phone. The 4 AM manic state has reached its full capacity. Ladies and gentlemen, we’re entering a liminal space of desire. I’m picking him up from the airport in a few hours, so sleep is not on my priority list. He’s on the plane as we speak, somewhere over the Atlantic, his presence already detectable. I’d flown in two days earlier under the excuse of wanting to do some shopping and meet friends, but honestly, I just needed some time to soak in anticipation. Going through our last text exchange like a holy scripture, as if I skim through the endless chain of blue-and-white iMessage bubbles one more time, new words will appear on screen and new interpretations will blossom. I bought him a T-shirt. I’d buy him anything. I’ve never wanted more. I’m going to eat him whole, skin and bones, drink him up shaken not stirred, three olives.

The greeting is just like in a Hallmark movie, maybe better, times two, then multiplied by eighteen. Reunited families are looking over at us in sheer disgust. Relax, everybody, who hasn’t seen PDA at the airport? If anything, that’s the one appropriate place for it. “We’re not even together!” I want to emphasize that in front of the elderly couple to save face, but my mouth is occupied and I’m high on my projections, sleep deprivation, and desire. I don’t know him at all, or maybe I’ve known him all my life — take a guess, there is no wrong answer. My cheeks are burning up, which is a premonition that this is too much chemistry for anything longlasting. A few minutes later he’s throwing his bright pink suitcase into the Uber, a weird color choice that only juxtaposes his chiseled triceps. Soon he’s going to be jetlagged and I’m going to continue pretending it’s meant to be for just a little while. For now, we’ve got things to see and do. Eiffel or Pont Neuf. Mostly each other.

brooklyn, new york

I’m walking through Nolita in search of a cocktail dress or some peace of mind, whichever comes first. I’d just arrived in New York this morning, fresh and earnestly clinging to my European nature —as in, forgetting I’m in a country where small talk with the Blue Bottle barista is mandatory, not optional— navigating the walking speed steadily enough to come off as a local. “See you at 8?” I hop on the M train.

We meet in Williamsburg. He’s wearing a suede jacket and incredibly douchey ankle boots —to be expected from a single millennial residing in Brooklyn’s creative circles— but he’s self-aware enough to make a joke about it and he smells amazing, so it’s a net positive. I don’t know if it’s my vulnerable doe-eyed tourist condition, the polluted air, or his countenance, but I’m on top of the world and you couldn’t push me off the zenith if you tried. How this night ends is clear to both of us, and I’m counting seconds to find out what it is I’ve been betting on, ravenous.

The conversation’s great; a perfect play in five acts with an intermission, words bouncing off my tongue into his mouth. You could tell me we’ve known each other forever and I’d believe you. There’s nothing I appreciate more than a man who’s funny and can pull off ankle boots. Not asshole funny, not trying too hard, he’s just born witty and he’ll die witty, and in between the two, I get to sneak my way into his bedroom and be entertained. He doesn’t care about me in the slightest, but I never asked him to and we’re not together, so it’s green lights all around. Surrender to the finish line. Tomorrow I’ll be ashamed and bloated, tonight is coated in honey and served on a satin pillow, and I’ll exploit it for as long as I’m allowed.

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We love labels. We operate on dichotomies. Casual or serious, commitment or fun, exclusivity or non-monogamy, hookup or till death do us part, everything gets a name with a description to go along. Things that can’t be defined, whether thanks to poor communication or immaturity, get a label too: situationship is one of them. You’ve seen the apps, you know the deal: you’ll be asked upfront to define what it is you’re trying to find. All is fair and understandable — the last thing we need in a world where clarity is a hard-earned token is voluntarily opting for a lack of clarity, so I get why we crave assigning names to things and things to names. You’re supposed to know what you want, aren’t you? It’s not that simple. At least not for me. We can sit here all day, dissecting relationships and situationships and the difference between the two, how you’re supposed to prefer one over the other, how to clear the air, how to start a tough what are we conversation, what to avoid, what to run from and towards. Well, I just gave you three different stories in a constellation I’ve struggled to categorize, and I have a handful more to offer.

Just for a moment, let me play the devil’s advocate: sometimes, time and place and libido considered, the best relationships are:

1. two to four business days long

2. never discussed or defined, no start or end date

3. devoid of clarity or intention

4. the most magical, heaven-sent thing you’ll get to experience.

What should we call it? A meteor strike? Chemical chain reaction? The sweetest melody from a jukebox that lasts exactly one song and not a second longer. Quantum physics. It’s one inhale, one exhale, we’re done. Ripe and supple like a tangerine, but also a ticking bomb thrown into the ocean. And that’s a great thing for a writer, isn’t it? We love cliffhangers. We love the virtue of impermanence. I don’t need forever because I enjoy watching things end — the perfect setup for a flight risk. Were it meant to last just a little longer, I’d start seeing the cracks in the ceiling, the wallpaper peeling off at the corners, and then I wouldn’t be so enthralled by the experience. He’d get bored of me eventually and I’d start hating the shoes and the clumsiness, the jokes and the restaurants, and the magic would dissipate before we even get the chance to say goodbye.

When I think back on my love affairs, what preceded them and followed suit, it’s always the shortest, most capricious bursts of romance that leave a lasting impact. They’re what I write and think about. Rewind the tape when I’m alone and hormonal and a little desperate, watch it like a montage until the tape gets stuck. A pocketful of moments, one more potent than the other. And I know that it’s unrealistic and probably unhealthy to call it love, but why wouldn’t I? That’s not love, you’ll say, you don’t even know these people. I’d counter you with well, what is love to you anyway? Love doesn’t require knowledge or a timeframe, it transcends both. I’ve loved them all, in proud vain and in delusion, but do I have the right to call them exes? Probably not. Referring to them as “some guy I went out with” or a situationship does zero justice to the grand legacy of sweet nothings and faint musings they leave behind. They’re a separate category, the echelon of transient greatness. Are we sweeter to each other because we know we won’t last, or do we know it’s doomed because everything about us is so sugary sweet? Honestly, a good chicken-and-egg question.

We can’t deny the beauty of a doomed encounter that never blossoms because it wasn’t meant to. Timer embedded in every word, a secret you both keep to yourself. It’s just there, right in front of you, ready to be devoured, a maraschino cherry to pick. Like an obnoxious bouquet of roses you know is dying in a few days, no amount of water can salvage, and you don’t expect it to stay alive like a house plant. It’s just life with its inevitable endings, there, there, there, and then it isn’t. You want that bouquet in your house anyway, with all its fleeting crude beauty and obnoxious implications. There’s no ups and downs, no stages or protocols, and, most importantly, no reticent patience growing around you like an oak tree to shade you from the sun. No need to play the waiting game or be on your best behavior, a kind of affair that doesn’t warrant character assessment for the long haul. This impermanence, bold and roaring, kills things way before I get to watch them languish. There’s beauty in not holding onto what isn’t yours.

We can get into pristine formalities and put the dreary ‘situationship’ or ‘one night stand’ labels on anything that is reminiscent of romance but isn’t quite that — but I find these picket signs a little too vulgar, simplified, and watered down to stave off the complexity of the experience with all the love dots in between, nestled across my favorite cities with my picture-perfect lovers. None of the labels describe the magic, the sweetness, the shortness of breath. An acute undertaking, one I’m happy to dive into again and again and then some. The short-lived encounters are my favorite because I get to direct them. I draw up the script, I cast, I improvise. Pick a city, choose your type, decide on the setting, add personality, multiply by stamina, then divide by circumstances and subtract how long we’re willing to pretend to care about each other. This is where the evening splits in half, and we’re back on our separate ways, two parallel lines in perfect motion.

Dear lover, put on your best shirt, wine and dine me, drink it up; I’ll leave you high and dry and let my perfume linger on the way out before somebody new comes in to charm you. You weren’t mine to keep, but you are mine to remember. We’ll meet again or we won’t — time doesn’t kiss and tell. After all, the open ending of a story is more than half of its appeal.