it’s like morocco in here

We’re past the awkward moment where we look at each other and separately think, “What next?” We’re past talking about movies, Leslie Neilson, television, our jobs and what we like to eat.

What next?

This moment makes me laugh, and then I realize that he might think I’m laughing at him. So I tell him.

“This is that awkward moment where we look at each other and say, ‘What next?'”


A coffee shop. it’s like morocco in here, except neither of have been there. Or here, actually. We keep talking and it keeps getting better. I’m laughing and he’s smiling and I wonder if I should put my hand on the table in that place that indicates that I’d like him to touch it. So I try. It feels not right. I put it back where it was, wherever that was.

Hope springs eternal in our eyes as we separately think that this might work.


You leave Morocco and stand by your car and the moment where you both know that hope did spring eternal and you kiss, wondering if you should kiss again and risk looking kind of slutty or if you should leave it there and leave him wondering whether you wanted to kiss again, but you hold off because this is a first date after all and maybe this could work and goddamn you shouldn’t have left Morrocco it was easier there.

I laugh again.

Thanks for dinner.

I drive into the street of Los Angeles that I know so well and alternately do not know well at all. It’s the great wide open and the city at the same time. Morocco is kind of like that. Known and unknown.

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