She sits alone in her bedroom, drinking cheap wine and waiting for him to call. She listens to thoughtless music and chats with friends on the computer, and occasionally a roommate drops in, but no one really ever says anything. Just enough to distract. With each passing minute, a little of her bounce and self-esteem withers, and eventually she grows weary of passively eying the photos of parties gone by that adorn her walls, waiting for him to call, and dials my number.

I have spent the last hour or so in the same state, the only difference being that I’m in a bar, and my tense anticipation has been for the call that actually comes. If at last call he fails in his quest to nail something new, I am out of luck. But in the meantime, we’ve both got companionship for a few hours, and – if worse comes to worse – a comfortable fuck.

We start with pitchers, before the bar fills in and the jukebox volume rises. Daily classes/errands/minutia fill the void for awhile. After the second pitcher we chat about failed romances/fantasies, unconvincingly acting out feelings of jaded, mysterious, unaffected apathy and pessimism.

I strike a respectable balance between prowess, goofiness and whimsy while while dancing to 80’s songs. We are onto whiskey. I make garish, effeminate faces expressing sexual desire. She makes ‘ha-ha-we’re-just-friends’ faces expressing sexual desire. I suavely (!) dip her during Fontella Bass and her eyes light up like I’ve just given her an orgasm.

On her porch, we both pretend as if we’re just hanging out. She’s still holding out a little hope that he’ll call. I’m thinking of a similar scenario with another girl that took place years ago. We smoke cigarettes (she only smokes when she’s drunk or flirtatious) and try not to sound as vulnerable as we are. Her cleavage is suddenly amazing. My wisecracks are suddenly flawless.

At no point do we ever actually say anything. We hint at it – through smiles or gestures or pre-planned statements blurted out in a hollow delivery – but we don’t say it. We jump through the flirtation hoops as if conversation were karaoke lyrics. We are running through lines. Both of us are entirely replaceable, and perhaps a replacement would be preferred by both parties.

A stale excuse to enter the house is offered. The hints become less subtle. Still no one says anything outside of what seems appropriate and casual. Last gulps of courage are taken, and we both settle into what we’ve settled for. The first three seconds of any kiss is always awkward. In morning light, we will be even more distant than the previous evening.

This wasn’t how we’d planned it in our heads, in our respective bedrooms, when dusk gave way to evening and the air buzzed with possibility.

It’s more comfortable than if we had gotten our wishes.