The Turkish Click

"Wait, what?" Sara says, choking on her strawberry margarita.

 

"What don't you get?"

 

"You're trying to tell me, you met a guy at a music festival and now you're going to see him in Istanbul."

 

"Yeah."

 

"Wait, when are you going?"

 

"Friday."

 

"This Friday? Are you fucking crazy? You just met him last week."

 

"Why am I crazy? Do you realize you're going to die one day, probably when you're waiting for a bus or at the nail salon? So, I don't get why me going to Istanbul is crazy."

 

I watch Sara shake her head from across the table. We both ordered margaritas. The presence of the miniature umbrella in my glass mixed with the random breeze of B.O. every time a gypsy walks by makes me feel like I'm at an all-inclusive two-star resort in Romania. I watch her beaded necklace sway back and forth with doubt, it too, disapproves.

 

I lean into the table, sliding my margarita over to the side, "look, there were 40,000 people at this festival, I went to the Reggae stage and I was dancing, that's it. Then, this guy kept looking at me and he started smiling and I thought, this guy must be looking at some chick behind me, so you know, I kept dancing. But when I looked up, he stared at me as if I was Shakira, you know what I mean? I can't forget the look in his eyes. But then he pulled out his phone and I thought it was kinda weird, so I just kept dancing, doing my thing. Then two seconds later, someone poked me, it was him and he said, "Natasha?" and then showed me his phone...he's following me on Instagram."                                                                       

 

I start laughing, "I remember accepting his request or his follow, whatever you fucking call. But what are the odds, man ... really? So we spent the weekend at the festival together and now I'm going to see him."

 

I play with the stem of my margarita glass, rolling it in between my fingers.

 

"How can I just leave this story... how can I leave this unexplored."

 

"Are you thirsty for dick? Cause I can get you some, you know."

 

"What the fuck are you talking about, you're not even listening to me. I don't give a fuck about dicks, you know me, if I want a dick, I can have one, that's not the point. You don't think it's weird that out of 40,000 people I end up dancing by a guy at a Reggae stage who recognizes me from Instagram and he's not even from here? Fucking Instagram, fucking Istanbul. Now that, that's crazy."

 

"Are you even hearing yourself? This is insane."

 

"Why are you trying to make me feel like my feelings are abnormal?"

 

"I'm no-"

 

"No, no. Everyone is trying to have me doubt what I felt and what I feel. I know what I felt and I saw what he felt." I slide my margarita in front of me and take a long, drawn-out sip.

 

"Actually, the last time I listened to any of you, I ended up being yelled at a fucking coffee shop with a psycho because you said, "Oh, he's a keeper, he has an Audi." And even though I had this weird feeling in my stomach, I was like, "Yeah, he has his shit together, he's mature." And that ended so well, didn't it?"

 

"Yeah, well, I'm not the one who went to Australia."

 

"And so what, man! I fucking went to Australia because I liked a guy. There... I said it. And now what? I'm now some thirsty fucking chick because I liked someone and wanted to see what would happen? What, I'm desperate because I felt a connection with him? I know how I felt and I know, still to this fucking day, what he felt. Don't try to convince me that I don't know what I feel. You think I would take a 15-hour flight to Australia if I wasn't sure? It's not my fault he's a pussy, don't try to flip that on me."

 

Sara's stroking her hand nervously through her hair, staring at the table.

 

"See, what I don't get why you're trying to make me look like I'm doing something wrong. Especially when I see you on fucking Tinder, so don't think you're better than me or somehow 'less crazy' than me. You're looking for the same thing as me. Your swiping, I'm flying, it's the same shit, man."

 

"Listen, go to Istanbul, I don't give a fuck," She leans back in her chair, looking outside the window.

 

"You give a fuck. You give a huge fuck. You're only acting like this because you don't have the balls to do this. All of you, you're all talking this big game about how you want to find someone, but you ain't doing shit. If you think I'm crazy now, I will fly to the fucking North Pole if I felt this person is the love and I mean, the love. If this is because he's Turkish, you can go fuck yourself. If this is because you're jealous, go to a fucking therapy session."

 

I take the umbrella out of my glass and chug the rest of the margarita down. The coldness hits my brain, feeling my head tingle, I shake it a couple of times regaining focus.

 

"You're going to die," I open my purse and take out a ten dollar bill, setting it on the table, "you have to understand that. You will die one day. So, why not just risk it?" I get up from the table and push my chair in, "isn't that what life is about?"