By Dani Katz
Infinitely better for them, I’d like to think.
I’d been crushing on an Austrian Occultist with upward slanting kitty cat eyes and a veritable gallery’s worth of sacred geometry inked on his arms for months, to no avail. While we shared a heady, geeky passion for Tarot, Nirvana and sacred plant medicine, he continued to eschew every opportunity I proffered to tear off my clothes and have his way with me. Still, we shared road trips, and movie nights and plenty of laughs.
I invited my best friend, Jo, along for a three-way lunch date, as I wanted her to finally meet the man who was inspiring so many lengthy conversations wherein she patiently listened as I dissected the minutia of his every word and gesture, and shed some wisdom on our frustratingly platonic dynamic. I introduced them, and watched as the cosmos exploded in fantastical shapes and colors between their sparkling gazes and warm, easy hugs. The chemistry was obvious, and off-the-charts. Still, I hadn’t yet lost my shit, as I was digging on their connection, excited to see I wasn’t so far off in thinking the Occultist was all that, and then some.
When Jo told me he’d called to ask her out, I felt my belly tie itself into a dozen jagged knots. While some shrunken, wounded part of me whined through the motions of jealousy, I was glad she told me, and that she said yes to the date, and that she presented the whole scenario to me so casually, as though I was evolved enough to handle it, which – in that moment, at least – I was.
The next morning, Jo called to share the juicy details. A mild freak-out ensued (mine). I told her I had no interest in hearing about the hot sex she had with my Mystery School crush, and demanded to know how would she like it if I hopped into bed with the music video director she’d been chasing all winter. She quietly listened while I expressed all my petty, co-dependent complaints, and as I spoke aloud the craggy grains of insecurity that had been scraping the edges of my heart and my belly, I felt lighter and better. By the end of my three-minute rant, the charge had worn off
“Okay,” I said, heart beat slowing, breath calming. “I’m ready to hear about your date.”
And, just like that, it was done. Jo dated the Occultist for the next few months, and we all grew closer from having navigated the awkwardness and the oddly angled corners of our relatedness so openly. The Occultist and I spoke freely about it, just as Jo and I had, and it didn’t take long for us to fall into an easy flow, wherein my friends were making love and sharing space and having fun, and I was genuinely happy for them.