I Know By Now That This State Of Mind Is Just A Waste Of Time

This girl was strange—and I don’t mean strange in the “haha, what a quirky girl” way.
No. I mean really strange.

It wasn’t her personality per se—or maybe it was, I don’t know. The point is, if I didn’t actively focus on how she looked (which took superhuman effort because my eyes basically glued themselves to her), it was like Medusa: except instead of turning me to stone, she turned me into an idiot.
An even bigger idiot.

Tangents.
Unnecessary.
Back to the point.

What I’m trying to say is that she created dissonance. If you want it simplified: something didn’t add up. On one hand she seemed like a computer, a humanized virtual assistant, whatever you want to call it. Look—who remembers the exact length of a conversation with a nameless coworker from three years ago? Take that as an example.

Answer: nobody.

Well, she not only remembered every single time I came into the store—apparently even on holidays, if I hadn’t mentioned it—but she recalled the exact time and even the duration of the purchase.

That’s not normal.

Her other side—let’s call it that—was simpler: an idiot. Not intellectually, I mean the kind of idiot where there should be a neon sign flashing 'I have no idea how to behave in any conversation longer than stating the price of the item I’m selling.'

That’s not a problem.

I could swear the way she was acting came from watching too many movies, misinterpreting them completely, and deciding that was the correct way to interact with people.

That is a problem.

Hers, from what she’s lived so far.
Now mine, because I was sharing space with her.
If you ask me, yes, I was definitely where I wanted to be. I can’t see red flags if I’m colorblind.
I’m not colorblind—that was a euphemism.

“So this is third base?”

“Exactly.”

“Does that mean we skipped second base or just ran straight through it?”

“Irrelevant.”

“Actually no, I have a point, but I need your answer.”

She slipped off her sneakers, sat on the edge of the blanket, peeled off her socks, and lay down next to me.
Not close enough to misread the situation, not far enough to make me think I had zero chance.
Call it average distance—if that even exists.

“We skipped it.”

“Damn…”

“If you want one of these, you have to pay for it.” She said while licking the melting chocolate coating off her fingers. “No freebies just for wordplay.”

“Don’t you think that’s… I don’t know… a little unfair?”

“Why?”

“This is a date.”

“Of course.”

“On a date you’re supposed to both enjoy the moment.” Checkmate.

She propped herself up a bit and tilted her head toward me. “So you’re not enjoying the moment?”

Shit. “I didn’t say I wasn’t enjoying it.” I finished my bland, flavorless lemon ice cream and stared at the stick to see if, by some miracle, it was one of those 'Get one free' ones.

“Then you are enjoying it.”

“It’s not what comes to mind when I think ‘date’… but yes.” I shifted a little on the blanket. “I’m enjoying it.”

“I’m glad.”

The handbrake is what makes a car stop dead, I think.
I say 'I think' because I don’t drive, I’ve never sat in the driver’s seat, and I definitely never could afford a car—but in theory, I’m probably not far off.

What I mean is: words can trail off slowly, leave a sentence hanging. Or you can just say nothing at all.

I chose the latter.
Not because I doubted what she said (which I did), but because the only light besides the fridge glow was the hideous screensaver on the monitor. Everything was dim, and even though she was hyper-focused on trying to excavate the cone without biting it, I could see a curved line.
Tangent unnecessary, or over-explanation: she was smiling.

“And… and you?”

“Of course.” She took the ice cream stick from my hand. “Uhm… better luck next time…” She was checking if it really was a 'Get one free' one.

“Seriously? I mean, we’re just talking.”

“Because you didn’t put on any movie.” She stretched like a cat, then stood and went to the freezer. Curiously, she pocketed the ice cream stick in her shirt pocket. “Though I think a movie would be less fun.”

“I didn’t think you liked just talking.”

“Why? Because ‘there’s something wrong with my head’?” She tossed me another ice cream—one of those peanut ones, half vanilla, half chocolate. “Back to second base.”

“Hey, no, wait—that’s not wh—” I had to juggle to catch it in the low light. “That’s not what I meant…”

“So…” She walked back to the blanket and crouched in front of me, still holding the cone in her mouth while she spoke. “Do you think there’s something wrong with my head?”

“I…”

“Do you think my idea of ‘fun’ makes me weird?”

“Come on, you’re giving it too much—”

“An anomaly, maybe?”

“I think you should ask a neurologist that.” I tried to force a laugh because somehow the air felt heavy, I’d even forgotten how cold the wrapper was in my hands.

“I’m asking you.”

“M-Maybe we should take another step, huh? See if there’s a movie you’re interested in.”

She reached into her skirt pocket, pulled out her phone, and from the thumb movement, she was flipping through apps.

“Is there something wrong with my head?” she asked again.

I didn’t feel terrified—this wasn’t a horror movie.
I didn’t feel pressured either.
It’s hard to explain what I felt in that moment, not because of the question itself (it’s a pretty ordinary question, really).
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve asked myself the same thing staring in the mirror whenever something went wrong.

A question.
Simple to answer.
Simple to answer if you avoid noticing that her phone screen had zero contacts.