A Final Dance

Act VI

Sara's father did not attend her funeral. I called the man myself and left a voicemail three times, "sir, do you know what happened to your daughter? Do you care?"

I might as well have been calling a dead end. All her mother could say was, "I told you."

The week before it happened had been difficult. That class, after my dad picked Sara and me up, that night left me a total wreck. I was a wreck the following day at school, and I was a wreck over the weekend.

I was a wreck because I was in love with her. I was enchanted by her. I was enraptured. My heart would flutter whenever I pictured her face, heard her voice, saw one of her texts, basically anything. My mind was out of control and I couldn't grasp the meaning of it all. I was obsessed. Touching her, I'd gone farther with her than any other girl—farther by far. To say others didn't even come close would be to imply that I ever went anywhere with anyone else.

Thursday evening, after dance class and right before my dad picked us up, I'd brushed her panties. She allowed it. She freaking allowed it.

It was wrong. I was wrong; I shouldn't have done that. It was a mistake and I regretted it. I should never have allowed that to happen. She was feeling vulnerable and I took advantage. I was selfish. I was a pig. A creep. A pervert. One day she was going to go on a talk show and narrate about that time in high school when some boy she like talking to put his hand up her skirt and brushed her panties and how traumatic it was and that was the moment she turned to heroin and became depressed and tried to commit suicide because of how low I'd made her feel.

Oh how that soft pussy felt good!

Sexual assault.

Maybe she didn't notice.

She called me that evening and we talked for hours until my mom came in and grabbed my phone, "excuse me? Yes. My son knows he's not allowed to be on the phone at this hour and he's going to lose the privilege until Monday. I'm sorry to inconvenience you, but good night."

What was I doing?

I was perpetuating an illusion in my mind of a possibility that didn't exist. Sara Temptation liked girls.

Dude, say it already.

She was a lesbian.

I had to say it to make it real. As if listening to her say things like 'wow, nice tits, huh?' while we watched some random video together wasn't enough of a reminder.

And this was the conundrum. That was the stereotype, wasn't it? A woman and her gay friend and they hang out and do stuff together. And she likes him and he likes her, just not in that way. So that's it. She deludes herself into thinking he's into her, pretends he doesn't walk on the other side of the street, more or less buys into the illusion that there's a degree of closeness there that shouldn't be. Only flip it. I saw. People are keen on buying into lies and illusions. We'd rather make-believe than accept a dull, boring reality. And I was living proof. An example of someone who failed and bought into the illusion, rejecting the truth that had so flagrantly been blasted into my face over and over again.

The illusion: Sara Temptation was the sexiest, sweetest, most tantalizingly delicious female ever to walk the face of this Earth. I loved her, and she loved me. We danced together, we talked for hours, we took long walks on a moonlit beach, we drank wine on the balcony together after the kids went to sleep, we held each other's hand when the doctor told us it's terminal, and after eighty years together, we died a month apart. She was everything to me.

The truth: Sara Templeton was a lesbian. Our little funtime play had more to do with reinforcing her ego than anything else. We had a good rapport, but eventually she was going to meet the girl of her dreams and move on from me, leaving me a lonely, twisted, bitter old man asking people to name their favorite color every time they wanted to cross my bridge. Sad.