date ideas

Valentine’s Day is a stupid holiday. It’s just there to try and trick you into buying stuff, or for making you feel guilty about not getting anything for your stupid probably maybe sort of girlfriend. Emotional blackmail disguised as loving sentiment.

Relationships have never been something that you payed a lot of attention to, since there was never any practical reason for you to do so. Now that you’ve somehow tumbled ass-backwards into one, you find that you have no idea what the fuck you’re doing. Stupid bullshit romance holidays and their stupid rules are completely alien to you. Well, ok, you know you’re supposed to buy the other person a present, and you also know that, usually, the boy is expected to get a gift for the girl, but you’re not really sure what the protocol is if you’re a girl dating a girl.

Realistically, you think, Root is the one who always insists that you’re dating, that you’re girlfriends, so she should be the one who has to do this stupid romantic stuff.

But this argument is so pitiful even you don’t believe it. There is no version of reality where you’re not the one who’s supposed to get a present for her.

It’s true that Root hasn’t exactly said that she expects anything from you for Valentine’s Day. She has started to leave various subtle clues for you over the last few weeks, though. Like when she comments about some stereotypically perfect Valentine’s surprise she read about on Tumblr, or wherever it is that she gets this stuff. She is surprisingly terrible at being subtle.

Valentine’s Day is tomorrow, so you only have what’s left of today and part of tomorrow to somehow come up with something brilliant and romantic, and you have no idea what to do for her, or get for her. What does she even like?

…

….

Suddenly it dawns on you that you are a lousy girlfriend. How can you not know what she likes?? Think, Shaw, dammit.

OK. She likes computer stuff, you guess. But you don’t know anything about computers, and you don’t really have the money for that kind of thing anyway. What else? What does she like? She likes… you. That doesn’t work. You can’t give yourself as a present, you don’t think.

You try to think of something else.

Valentine’s Day is stupid.

This is the cycle your thoughts have been going in: you have to get something for Root —> you don’t know what to get Root —> Valentine’s Day is dumb and you don’t care about it —> Root cares about Valentine’s Day —> you have to get something for Root

And so on, for infinity. You know if you don’t manage anything appropriately girlfriend-y for the stupid holiday, you’re going to upset Root, and you hate upsetting her. Then you’ll have to figure out how to apologize to her, and probably end up getting her a present anyway. And the kissing will stop.

You don’t want the kissing to stop.

“Sameen.”

You’re sitting on a swing in the run-down park that Root likes for some reason. She’s in the swing beside you, and she keeps swinging sideways and bumping into you. You could ignore her, but she’ll just keep doing it until you acknowledge her. Root loves attention more than anything, and she loves attention from you more than anyone.

Wait.

That’s an idea, you think. Or at least the start of one.

“Sameeeeen.” Root whines, bumping into you again.

“What?”

Root grabs one of the chains holding your swing to the rusted metal frame of the swing set, and pulls herself over until her face is right next to yours. This is more distracting to you than you would like to admit. “Do you want to sleep over at my house tonight?”

You’re sure your surprise is registered on your face. Root has never asked you over to her house before; she dodges even discussing her family or home life unless you really press her, and even then she only does so reluctantly and somewhat flippantly. Why is she asking now, all of a sudden?

Somewhere in the midst of your befuddlement you vocalize the first thing that comes to your mind: “I need to ask my mom.”

“I already did.” Root lets go of your swing, lets her momentum carry her away from you, then back again like a pendulum, then she grabs your swing once more and latches herself on tightly. “She said it’s ok.”

“Remember that conversation we had about personal space?”

“No,” Root replies, wide-eyed, pulling herself closer and laying her head on your shoulder. “Wanna remind me?”

“Forget it.” You sigh. “Ok, sure, I’ll sleep over tonight.” You can’t deny that you’re curious about Root’s home, and her sudden desire to bring you there. Pretty much all you know about her home life is that her mom is always busy, probably sort of well-off, and also that she’s an asshole who’s mean to Root and you hate her. And you have other, ulterior motives for visiting Root’s house as well, namely, getting yourself close enough to all of Root’s personal belongings that you can come up with an appropriate gift for a stupid holiday that you don’t even care about anyway.

She wraps her arms around your neck to hug you, but in the process she loses her balance, toppling both of you out of your swings and onto the dirt below with a solid thud.

“Sameen,” Root says, voice slightly muffled from where she lies facedown on the ground, torso laying across yours. “I think you’re falling for me.”

You return to your house to pick up some pajamas for tonight and clothes for tomorrow, though you do text your mom first to confirm that the outing has actually been run by her. You wouldn’t put it past Root to ‘forget’ to do so, as some obliquely connected cog in the mechanism of her schemes. But you quickly receive confirmation that Root had requested permission for your presence, which your mom seemed to be quite happy about. Which is good. She hasn’t been happy very much since your dad died, and you haven’t been able to figure out how to cheer her up.

Apparently, all you had to do was make friends with a lunatic.

You and Root bike to her house, which is more rural than you expected, rather modestly sized, dwelling at the end of a long road, on the edge of a hill. You can see cows grazing in the field down below. The road curves around a copse of trees, so from the driveway, no other houses or people are visible. It’s quite nice, actually. You wouldn’t mind living in a place like this someday.

Better not say that to Root, though. She’d take it the wrong way.

“Come on!” She yells from up ahead, rolling her bike into a one-car garage which presently contains zero cars; presumably Root’s mother is still at work. Or wherever it is she goes that requires her to constantly neglect her daughter, you think savagely. You clench and unclench your hands on the handlebars of your bike, trying to calm yourself down. It’s stupid to get mad about this. It’s not like you can do anything about it. But thinking this just makes you mad again.

You lean your bike against the garage wall next to Root’s, and follow her through the door into the house. The interior looks almost like a model home; impeccably decorated, but sterile somehow; there are no dishes left out in the kitchen, no books or magazines lying around, you don’t even spy any of the typical family photos decorating the walls. It’s almost like no one actually lives here. Root leads you up a flight of stairs to her room, the only room on the second floor except for a small bathroom which is accessed from within Root’s room.

Her room looks a lot like you expected it to. Nearly half the floor is covered in articles of clothing that have been strewn about, little bits of metal and wire that look like projects Root started on but got bored with, and various notebooks and pieces of paper that all bear some variation of ROOT & SHAW, written in elegant cursive, encircled by large hearts. Root deftly navigates the minefield of indolence and hops onto her bed, gesturing for you to join her. You step somewhat less surely around the debris of Root’s existence, and climb up onto the bed beside her.

“Did your closet explode in here, or something?”

Root tries to give you a serious look, but she can’t stop smiling and just looks kind of silly. “No need to be rude, Sameen.” She scoots closer and puts an arm around your shoulders. “Besides, I’ve seen your room.”

“My room looks fine.” You don’t move her arm away. But just because you don’t feel like bothering.

“Only because you just shove everything under your bed.”

“Why were you looking under my bed?” You ask, starting to get annoyed. “When were you looking under my bed?” Normal people would take your tone as a hint to back off, but it just makes Root more excited. Not that she’s ever been accused of being normal. Neither have you, for that matter.

Suddenly you’re not mad anymore.

“Don’t worry,” Root is saying placatingly. “I didn’t look through any of your stuff.” She reconsiders. “Well, I didn’t look through most of your stuff.”

You sigh. “Can we eat something? I’m starving.”

A movie plays on Root’s laptop, which rests on top of several stacked books. You and Root watch, seated beside each other on the bed, each armed with a plate of meat loaf that Root’s mom had prepared earlier and left in the fridge. The food is delicious, and although you want to hate it on principle, you find yourself unable to do so.

“There’s a kitchen downstairs, you know,” You say between bites. “Not that this isn’t fun.”

“I like eating up here.” Root replies. Numerous dishes stacked on the bedside table attest to the truth of this statement. Also on the bedside table, you observe a framed picture of a very small Root with a man you presume to be her father. But you don’t say anything about it. You don’t know how to have that conversation.

Bedtime approaches, with Root’s mom still having yet to make an appearance. You ask, and Root responds with a shrug, and “She works late,” which you think is a shitty excuse. This lack of parental oversight does mean that there’s really no need for you to go to bed anytime soon, or even at all. However, you made a deal with yourself that lets you put off thinking about Valentine’s ideas for Root tonight, provided you come up with something good tomorrow. And the likelihood of you doing so if you’re too tired to think clearly is very low. Root seems keen on sleeping as well, presumably looking forward to your hopefully great and reasonably romantic surprise.

“So,” You begin after returning from the bathroom, now attired appropriately for sleep in your pajamas. “Is there any room in this biohazard zone to fit the sleeping bag?” Root had informed you that she had a sleeping bag you could use, so you didn’t need to bring the one from your house. She avoids making eye contact with you, shifting her weight from foot to foot and biting her bottom lip. You sigh. “There’s no sleeping bag, is there?”

Root face twitches as she tries to hold back a smile. “Guess we have to share the bed.”

You stare flatly at Root, while she grins hopefully.

“Ok, fine,” You tell her, and she jumps up and down ecstatically. “But you better stay on your side. Or I’ll push you off the bed.”

“Do you still think about your dad sometimes?”

Root voice breaks the silence in the room, shaking you out of your almost-but-not-quite slumber. You don’t open your eyes, but you can feel her shifting around beside you. She’s kept her promise to stay on her side of the bed so far, though these ‘feelings’ talks have a tendency to devolve into cuddling.

“Sometimes.” You reply to her question. Maybe she saw you looking at the picture.

“I think about my dad,” Root says, thoughtfully. “Even though I’m sure he doesn’t think about me, I still wish he was here. Isn’t that weird?”

Sometimes you wonder if the reason your relationship with Root works is because she’s just as socially obtuse as you are. You’re pretty sure she does it on purpose, though.

“He’s an asshole.” You tell her. You find her hand under the covers and grip it tightly.

Root’s quiet for a while. Until you (again) almost find sleep. Then she says: “Do you like dresses?”

“…What?”

“On girls.”

“Yeah,” You say, rolling your eyes, even though she can’t see it. Your voice carries the sentiment well enough. “I figured that. I meant why are you asking?”

“I was thinking about wearing one to school tomorrow. I just wanted to know what you thought.” Root uses the tone that she deploys when she’s saying more than she’s letting on. Which is the tone she uses almost exclusively.

“Wear whatever you want.” You’re really not sure what she’s trying to get at here.

“Do you think it would look good on me?”

This line of questioning is becoming just as stupid as it is incomprehensible. “You always look good, Root. Let me go to sleep.”

This was apparently the right response, since she squeezes your hand happily.

“I think you’d look,” Root yawns widely and loudly. “Really pretty in a dress. I mean, you look pretty anyway…” Her voice drifts off sleepily, but she doesn’t let go of your hand. You don’t let go either.

Shaw is sleeping. You scooted as close to her as possible without getting on her side of the bed. Which is pretty close. Your bed is small. She huffs out a breath. You reach out and poke her cheek. Her eyelid twitches and she mutters something, but she doesn’t wake up.

You slept with Shaw last night. Sure, the truth is a lot tamer than the phrase implies, but none of the friends you tell will need to know that.

You don’t have any friends other than Shaw, though, so it will just be you telling it to yourself. Which is fine, because it makes you happy every time you think about it. You entertain yourself like this for a while.

Now you’re bored again. Poke Shaw. Poke. Poke. Still not awake. But the way she scrunches up her face every time you poke her is so cute you just can’t stop. Poke.

Today is Valentine’s Day. For the last few weeks, you’ve been offhandedly telling Shaw about a bunch of different Valentine’s Day ideas you found around the internet. You don’t think she really knows what to do, so you thought you’d give her a lot of suggestions so she doesn’t have to worry about it too much. You don’t even need a present, really. You already spend almost every day with her, and half of the week you sleep over, so what else could you need? You’ve thought about telling her that she doesn’t need to get you anything, but you know she’s sensitive about not being good at relationship-y stuff, and you don’t want to make her feel like you think she can’t do it.

You poke her again. You want to give her the gift you bought a few days ago. Poke.

“Stop it,” She growls, without opening her eyes.

“Good morning, gorgeous.” You say, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. Her eyes shudder open slowly and she tries not to smile. But she smiles anyway, because you are just that charming.

You lean forward and give her a good morning kiss. It’s kind of morning breath-y, but still very nice. Her lips are big and soft and perfect, and make for very pleasant kissing. Not that you’ve ever kissed anyone else to compare with. But why would you want to? If other people kissed Shaw, they would never want to kiss anyone else either. But they can’t, because she is yours.

You pull away, leaving Shaw still bleary and looking somewhat disappointed. You reach down beside your bed and pull out the large box of chocolates, and hold it out to her. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Shaw sits up and takes the proffered box. She looks down at it for a moment, then looks back up at you. “I got you something too.”

“Ok.” You try not to seem too excited, but you don’t think you do a very good job.

“It has to wait until after school, though.”

You and Shaw eat chocolates for a while, but soon you are forced to get ready for school. Shaw grabs her backpack with her clothes in it, and goes into the bathroom to change. She closes the door, probably so you can’t look.

Which you guess is fair, because you definitely would have tried to look. Not on purpose. You just can’t help yourself around Shaw.

So while she’s getting dressed, you look through your clothes (not the ones on the floor) for appropriate Valentine’s Day apparel. You have two dresses in your closet presently, blue and red. Black outfits and red outfits are the ones that Shaw compliments you the most on, you have discovered after several weeks of careful research, so you tend to wear those more often now. So red dress it is. Boots? Yes, definitely. Boots make your legs look good, which you have noticed Shaw noticing on multiple occasions.

Shaw comes out of the bathroom and you go in, preparing to make yourself pretty.

Well, prettier, since Shaw said you always look pretty.

You think about this and space out in front of the mirror for a while until Shaw bangs on the door with a “Did you die in there?”

“Wow, you can’t even go a few minutes without me,” You say, trying to sound as relaxed as possible while you tug your pajamas off and your dress on. “Kinda clingy, Sameen.”

“Clingy?” Shaw retorts from the other side of the door. “You’re the one who never stops touching me.”

“I don’t hear you complaining,” You say, applying lipstick.

“I’m complaining right now.”

“Oh,” You say, opening the door and stepping back into your room. “So do you want me to stop?”

Shaw’s mouth is open, like she’s about reply, but she just stares at you. Her mouth stays open. “Wow.”

You grin. This is the reaction you were aiming for. “I’ll take that as a ‘no,’ then.”

“Let’s go, Samantha.”

Your mom barely even reacts to your guest, beyond a cursory nod in her direction, even though you hadn’t looked for parental consent before inviting Shaw over.

Samantha Samantha Samantha. You hate being called Samantha. Hearing your mom say it makes you want to curl up into a ball and hide. Shaw notices, and you can see anger clouding her face. She’s not very good at emotions, but she knows how to be angry, so she gets angry on your behalf. It’s very sweet. She fiercely grabs your hand and holds it in a vicelike grip all the way to the car, and all the way to school, maintaining a constant, furious glare in your mother’s direction. The gesture goes unnoticed.

“Root,” Shaw announces when you reach the school, emphasizing your name. “Is staying at my house tonight.” She opens the car door and drags you with her before your mom has a chance to respond.

There are lots of couples around being couple-y today. None of them are as cute as you and Shaw, which is gratifying. Not unexpected. But gratifying.

She sits with you at lunch, like usual, but excuses herself to go to the bathroom, and never rematerializes for your next class. Or the one after that.

Hardly the first time she’s snuck out of school. But normally she asks you to come along.

Slinging your backpack over your shoulder, you leave your last class of the day, walk out to the parking lot, and then… what? Walk to Shaw’s? What if she’s not there? Should you just wait here?

You sit down on the curb.

You’re sure she’s up to something, so you’re not really put out, but being left alone by your girlfriend on Valentine’s Day is not very fun. You sigh.

Your phone buzzes. Your heart speeds up as you quickly unlock it to check your messages.

SENT FROM Shaw AT 4:10

Come to the park

It’s a pretty short walk. Only about ten minutes. But you’re so excited it seems like forever.

You navigate through the ubiquitous weeds that serve as a de-facto fence for the run-down park, and stop short when you see Shaw.

She’s sitting on one of the swings, wearing a white dress that comes down nearly to her ankles.

You try not to stare.

You fail to not stare.

You didn’t even know she owned any dresses. Did you tell her that she’d look pretty in one? Maybe. You might have just dreamed that. Your dreams usually have Shaw in them. But anyway, you’re pretty sure this isn’t a dream, even if it shares several essential qualities with your typical sleep-induced adventures.

“You can stop staring.”

“You look amazing.” You say truthfully.

“I know.” She says, but she looks pleased.

When you are able to sever your eyes from Shaw for a moment, you notice a blanket spread out on the grass behind the swing set, with a cooler sitting beside. You take Shaw’s hand, gently pull her off the swing and towards what you presume to be a picnic, planned by your lovely girlfriend.

“You made dinner for me?” You ask, sitting down on the blanket crosslegged, before realizing that this causes issues with your dress and adjusting your posture somewhat.

“Well,” Shaw looks uncomfortable, opening the lid on the cooler. “I don’t really know how to cook anything, so I just made sandwiches.”

You have the best girlfriend. Also the prettiest. She’s still standing by the cooler, looking uncertain.

“So,” She starts. “Is this romantic enough?”

“Sameen, this is perfect.”

“OK, good,” Shaw looks relieved, and sits down.

“You didn’t have to do anything for me,” You say, pulling a sandwich from the cooler. “I know this isn’t really your thing.”

“Come on,” Shaw scoffs. “You’d’ve moped for weeks if I hadn’t done anything.”

You stick out your bottom lip and make your best mopey-face. Shaw’s lips quirk upwards, and she tells you, “Stop it,” but you don’t, you keep doing it and moving your face closer to hers until she starts laughing and pushes you away.

Root eats two sandwiches. You eat five. Then she lays her head in your lap, and seems content to remain there quietly.

Whatever rubric is used to determine whether a Valentine’s date is satisfactory appears to have been met, at least in Root’s eyes. Somewhat surprising, considering you threw it together at the last second with no firm ideas other than to give Root dinner somewhere that she actually feels safe and comfortable, i.e., not at her house. The dress probably helped too. Showing that you pay attention to what she says wins you a lot of Root points. Root points are a real measurement, collated in a file you’ve seen on her computer, awarded for things like ‘kissing,’ ‘minimal resistance to dates,’ ‘told me i was pretty,’ and so on. Although you’re mostly sure she only does it to mess with you.

This tangent reminds you of something else you’re supposed to do on dates.

“Hey,” You say, and she opens her eyes and looks up at you. “You look really pretty tonight.”

She smiles widely, and wraps her arms around your neck, pulling you down for a kiss. “You do too.”

She’s told you this a number of times already tonight, which you also gathered from her even more frequent than usual stares.

Maybe you kind of like it. Besides, you do look really good. You generally favor a more utilitarian wardrobe, since a dress can be rather cumbersome if you find yourself in a situation where you need to fight someone, but you can wear the hell out of one if you want to.

“Does your mom know we’re dating?” Root inquires suddenly.

“I didn’t tell her,” You say. “But I think she figured it out.” Fortunately you already had the uncomfortable ‘you can love anyone you want’ talk years ago, after your younger self had a brief infatuation with a television actress, so your mom has just been giving you quiet encouragement, and occasionally advice when you upset Root and have no idea how to fix it. She also seems disturbed by Root’s home situation, and invites her over as often as possible. Almost as often as Root invites herself over. “She really likes you.” You inform her.

Root looks up at you mischievously. “She’ll make a good mother-in-law.”

You push her off your lap, and she snorts in laughter.

“I left my bike in your garage.”

You lean against the headboard of your bed, while Root lays backwards off the edge, her feet by your legs, head hanging off the end of the bed. Her face pops back into your vision for moment as she leans up and asks “Are you saying you want to come over again?”

“Yeah.” You say. “But if I see your mom again, I’m going to beat her up.” Root grins and flops back down with slightly too much force, her torso and then legs falling over the end of the bed. She hops back up and seats herself next to you.

“Do you think you’re a good kisser?” She asks, with no preamble.

“I dunno.” You say. Is this a critique of your skills? “I guess.”

“But how would you know?” Root inquires. “Like, if you were a bad kisser, how would you find out?”

You turn to look at her. “What are you getting at?”

“I’m just saying,” Root continues. “We’ve never kissed anyone other than each other. Not a very large sample size. So how do we know if we’re any good?”

“So…” You say slowly. “You want to… kiss other people?”

“No, Sameen,” Root says, in the tone she uses when you’re not getting something she thinks is obvious. “I’m saying, maybe we should practice more. You know, so we can get better.”

Oh.

“Yeah,” You say. “OK.”

So you kiss her for a while. There are worse ways to spend Valentine’s Day.

You don’t think there are any better ways, actually. But you’re not going to admit that.

Root, in her sleeping bag (which she set up as close to your bed as possible), snorts again. She sleeps with one arm flung over her head, her mouth wide open, and every few minutes she snorts and twitches. You should be going to sleep, but for some reason you’re just leaning over the edge of the bed, watching her.

She’s cute.

You wake up, like you usually do these days, to Root’s face mere inches from your own. You try not to smile at her weird, earnest expression, but you can’t help it, and she grins back.

Relationships are stupid.

Except for yours.