Hylomorph

Matter and form. That's all any of us are, that's really all we've got. It's our first offense. Our senses take in the form of something, that's perception. That's all you are, for a time. And we go to it for judgment, more often than not. You and me both.

I didn't know anything about her, just that she was a friend of Gerri's. From work, new girl, newish to town. Went through a breakup not too long ago. I was told she was a nice girl. That doesn't mean a thing.

"Is she cute?"

"Yeah. Yes!" Gerri tells me. Suspicions abound.

The affirmation, followed by a more emphatic, more positive version. If a girl does this, red flag. Red flag, buddy. Girls are more forgiving. They're sick of being judged by their looks only, and they probably should be. But that doesn't change the fact that a "hot" from a girl means a "cute" from a guy, and a "cute" from a girl means "pass."

But I go. I say I'll meet her for drinks at Milo's after work Thursday. Nice but casual, easy for it to lead to nothing or lead to bed. I want to keep my options open. My mind the same.

I get there early so I can knock one back. Helps loosen me up a bit, nothing new. People are slowly filing in from work. Jeans, loose ties, heels, trousers, gym bags. I see one too many men in suits with no tie, my least favorite look in the entire world. Their day making money was so difficult they just have to take off the entire tie. There, that's better.

She walks in. Florence I'm told her name is. For a second I let her look around. I'm not as eager as I'd like to be. She cleans up nicely, there's that. Soft lipstick, form-fitting skirt. The form is where the trouble is. I order another drink as she spots me.

She orders a Kentucky Mule. She's a bourbon girl, picked it up from her grandfather. She taught herself guitar when she was thirteen. She doesn't understand how people can hate cats, even with allergies ("They have medicine for that, grow a pair" she says). She's funny, she's got real wit. She doesn't like how divided we've gotten, how people use their personal religion as a weapon, she doesn't like diet cola. She bites her lime. She is showing the best possible version of herself. And mostly I'm quiet and agreeing, and drinking bourbon alongside her.

When things are done she gives me her number. I don't ask for it. She smiles at me. It's a slow smile, after a silent judgment, like she's realizing there are still decent guys in the world. There are, I think, somewhere.

We exchange hugs outside the bar. She had a nice time, I did, too. She goes her way, I go mine. I pass so many people.

Years ago I started dating a beautiful girl. Not long after we got together she cut her hair. Pretty short. This was the start of all that, beautiful girls with long beautiful hair chopping it all off. It wasn't my favorite and she knew that. She let it grow for a few months, then cut it again. I asked her if she was testing me. She just laughed. I told her I liked long hair better.

"Excuse me?"

It was a simple fact. "I've just always been more attracted to long hair."

"If you really love someone," she teaches me, "it shouldn't matter what they look like."

"So if I weighed three hundred pounds, you'd still love me?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"You would."

"Yes!"

Maybe she was telling the truth. I don't know, she ended it a couple hours after that affirmation. We've all got our types. Every one of us has a list of things that turn us on, turn us off. And that's the guy I'm used to being. I like the world we live in. I like that we're more open, we're more accepting. More and more people are more and more free to do what they please with whom they please and I think it's beautiful. I really do. But change is hard, it's gradual. And I feel bad about the judgments I make. I feel bad that I can't separate things out, or see the big picture, or do whatever it is I'm supposed to do. I do think there's more to people than what you see. There's more to me. Despite what you've learned.