Girl Crush

I saw her at the taco bar...

P.C. Bilal Karim

She was so cool-looking. She sat across the restaurant from my friend and me at the outdoor taco place in Mexico City. We were getting Saturday early afternoon brunch and baking in the heat under the awning. She was eating with a friend. She had her underarm hair, subtle but grown like mine, on full display. She had this beautiful, large, curly brown mullet. Not short, frizzy curls, but messy, tangled, long ones. She was wearing a white wife-beater tank top. An obvious dyke. Yet I found her mesmerizing.

There are a couple of types of women that I just love. And, my god, I couldn’t have imagined a more perfect Girl Crush if I had tried. When I look at a woman like her, I love that the possibilities abound. She had that special air of the chaotic, zig-zagging artist (if you’ve read my previous work, you know!) Only the United States of America could manufacture such a confident, mighty creature. I heard the rounded accent of her voice, grinning as she shoveled a taco into her mouth. Her cheekbones. American lesbians are my favorite. I don’t know why. There’s just something about them.

Watching her lean back against the black-painted bench, I found myself breaking my old mold. I don’t need the approval of men. I might not even need men at all. The month-aversaries, the promise rings, the him-paying-for-dinner, the will-he-support-me milestones faded into meaninglessness. The scarcity and pressure pushed into me by the patriarchy now just seemed plain silly. Why had I watched happy, straight couples walk around while burning with feelings of jealousy and inadequacy? How had I ever thought that I was not hot enough, social enough, or lovable enough? No. Seeing her across the restaurant changed everything. 

I suddenly got a vision of the kind of life I could be living. Career, love and care, nurturing, and everything in between. I mean, fuck yeah! Somehow, the kind of life I want to live feels more accessible to me with a female partner than a male partner. I have gotten glimpses of that bigger, more interesting life. Girl Crush did that to me. 

As the rounds of our tacos came, I drummed up the courage. 

“I have to do something about this!” I harsh-whispered to my friend. 

“Give her your number!” 

“How?”

She shrugged. Then she reached into her purse and pulled out a crumpled plane ticket. She ripped off a corner of it for me. 

“Here.”

I wrote my name and my number. 

“And put a smiley face.” 

I spent the rest of our lunch on edge. Should I? Would I? At one point, Girl Crush looked like she and her friend were leaving. But then it turned out they were ordering another round of tacos. 

We paid our bill. My heart was pounding in my chest. I stood up. I straightened my cut-off green-patterned trousers and my cropped black top. I smoothed out my hair while also accepting that whatever she was about to think of me couldn’t be helped now. I stumbled up to her table. 

“C-Can I give this to you?” I said, thrusting the crumpled part of the plane ticket into her hand. “It’s my number,” I added. I walked away before I could look her in the eye. I was too terrified.

The thrill of it lasted down the street, around the corner, and stuck with me for most of the afternoon. Here I was, this private-school-educated girl, still unlearning years of the male-centric universe. I had seen a girl I had liked. I had fucking made a move. I had gone after her, even though I was a nervous and nerdy wreck.

It’s been about a week now since I made that move. I’m still waiting for the text from Girl Crush. But to see it, to have felt it, to have thought it and fantasized about it with her. To have asked the universe for something more. To have done it and to have felt myself come alive. That’s not something I can regret.