I am not dressing up for your girlfriend

I am not dressing up for you or your girlfriend. I tell myself this as I peel off my clothes and pull my wind messied hair out of its hair elastic. I step into the shower and turn on the water. I remember when I went to that movie with you and my sister, and we joked on the car ride back about secret lovers. The next day was your birthday party, and I spent forty five minutes trying to find the right thing to wear. Something to make me look older, although its impossible to look old enough. All of your friends are married, marrying, or have kids. They have to let their husbands and babysitters know when they are going out.

I remember thinking about the right cardigan to wear as the water stops and I am jolted into present tense. I fiddle with the tap, and the shower head spurts a sad, trickling stream of water. I shake and grow cold as soap slides down my shoulder. I think about the skin I am dressed in. I could never be your lover. I could never love your girlfriend. I am a girl. You only love women. Definition of a woman: females who've got their shit together. I am just a scared girl who is fumbling through life with no path and only a vague conception of my own identity.

I am not dressing up for you. I tell myself this as I finger comb the last dregs of the conditioner into my cold dripping hair. You couldn't love this body. You research and work with people who have mental disorders. You would know what everything means. My cold body is blasted with cold water, and I think that this is the worst shower I've had since that time I decided to have a cold water shower to save on energy last year.

I wrap my body in a towel and dry myself. I am self conscious of the desire to paint my nails. I give in. I tell myself that I am not dressing up for you or your girlfriend. I paint my nails the colour of my affection for you: pinkish brown. If I lived in queertopia I don't know if I would even like you this much. You are too old for me. Dating me would be like dating a fourteen year old girl. I couldn't tell you anything you didn't know. I couldn't show you anything different about the world or this city because you've been here longer. Everything I say would be cute, not serious.

I am not dressing up for your girlfriend. I tell myself this as I put on a skirt and a nice clean shirt that my sister gave me that still has the tag in the back. Your girlfriend strikes me as the kind who acknowledged her love for women later in life. There's nothing wrong with this though. She's a woman. Women don't love girls. I tell myself I am dressing up for the girl who I might meet there. This is unlikely because its a play. Plays equal couples on dates. I wouldn't want the girl I meet to see me like this anyways. I am a girl dressed as a doll mimicking the kind of woman you would like. I don't look like a whore. I look nice in the way that I think you would think someone would look nice.

I am not a jealous person, but I can't help doing this. I don't know why when it comes to you, I dress up for you and your girlfriend. I just hope that you don't notice.