Ellie & Goldie
02 June 2026
Word Count: 1187
C.W. Mild Profanity
By next Saturday, it will have been exactly one month since my last relationship. Despite my better judgment, it lasted three months. I can still recall the moment I dumped my ex vividly. We met last semester, as we were both studying at the Royal Andersen Institute University and taking the same poetry elective. That night, there was a torrential downpour, so we got a taxi back to his condo. We picked out an auteur film from his vast collection. But of course, he fell asleep within the first 20 minutes. I turned off the television. As I listened to the patter of rain on the windowsill, I let my mind wander. I thought about how, despite my inability to be punctual, my overchattiness, and my all-consuming proclivities (all of which he’d constantly critique me for), this felt like only the beginning. I was grateful because that relationship felt like it had longevity.
I curled up next to him, but I couldn’t fall asleep. I felt a lump, like a substantially sized rock was in the middle of the bed. My tossing and turning awoke him.
“Are you alright?” He asked.
“No,” I yawned. I crawled out of his bed and crouched onto the floor.
“What are you doing?”
I stuck my hand under the mattress and found a single green pea. By far the worst legume in existence. Enraged, I flicked it in his face. “How many times do I have to tell you not to eat in bed?!”
“Princess,” he said, a nickname he called me after the ketchup incident in that ever-so affectionately condescending way. “You have no sense of humour.”
“What indication did I ever give to make you think this would be funny?” I asked, sustaining my sour expression.
“Christ,” he chuckled. “How did you even feel that? God, you’re so sensitive!”
With that, I grabbed my coat and absconded, ignoring his pitiful pleas to stay.
I rested my head on the cab window and texted my sorority friend that I would be coming back much earlier than expected, in desperate need of chocolate gelato.
I know I’m not perfect. I’ll never be a trophy wife. But why am I expected to strain my patience for someone who can’t respect my clearly stated boundaries? They say they agree to my specificities on paper, but can never put them into practice. I’m not even heartbroken at this point; I’m just tired of being disappointed.
***
​
Over the past few weeks, a friend of mine has set me up on a series of dates with three mutuals of hers, since I wouldn’t “shut up about my perpetual singleness,” her words, not mine. Most of the time, I don’t give a shit because I’m distracted. But then there are those moments where I can’t not give a shit. Like, around the family holiday dinner table. With nothing to say, I sink silently into my sweater. The only person there without a partner who isn’t a damn child. Now, I’ve been described by my friends as picky. However, I view this as a misunderstanding; I’m not being picky. I’m refusing to settle. Fuck knows it never ends well when you only tolerate each other.
The first date was with a bronze brick wall of a man named Samuel. He was practically a full foot taller than me and approached me with the excitement of a poorly socialized puppy. His idea of a first date was going to a concert, a place so loud and crowded you can’t hear yourself think, let alone your date. The lights were flashing, and the speakers were booming. I couldn’t see shit, and I felt the base in my chest more than my own heartbeat. I said I’d text him after the show, but I think I’m going to ghost. Overall, Samuel was too tall, too loud, too energetic, and way too much for me.
My second date was with Charlie. They were short, pale and willowly. They approached me with the timidity of a frightened alley cat. They invited me as a plus-one to a pottery class. On our walk to the studio, Charlie hardly made a peep. Trying to get anything out of them was like pulling weeds. Although once the class started, I can’t imagine I was all that charming, either. All I could focus on was the warm clay squelching between my fingers like slime. They invited me to the next class to paint our creations, but I’m sure my lumpy project will explode in the kiln, destroying everyone's hard work. Therefore, I will not be showing my face there again. On the whole, Charlie was too small, too fragile, too quiet, and far too tedious for me.
Just when I thought I had no choice but to accept my fate of dying alone, the day of the third date arrived. She was so pretty. She was about my height, toned, had pin-straight copper hair and adorable freckles.
“What’s your name?” She asked and kissed the back of my hand.
“Gilda-May Leanore Fox, but you can just call me Goldie,” I said, twirling a lock of my hair like a fucking dork.
“I’m Penelopea. Spelt, P-E-A,” she said. “But you can just call me Ellie. I hate peas.”
“Especially in pea soup,” I added.
“I know, right? It’s disgusting!”
First, we visited an artisanal boba bar, the interior of which was decorated with the most realistic fake foliage I’ve ever seen. Admittedly, I started to worry that Ellie would be too bougie and pretentious for me, but it was amazing. The place lets you choose how long your tea is steeped and the ratio of ice, sugar, and pearls.
“The pearls are not too firm, not too soft, but just the right amount of chewy,” I mentioned.
“They're made in-house,” she told me. “You’re a bit of a foodie too, huh? What’s your favourite?”
“You can’t possibly expect me to answer that,” I lied.
She smirked, seeing right through me.
“Fine, I’ll tell you. But you have to promise not to laugh.”
She locked her pinky around mine.
“Porridge!” I said.
“Really? Mine too! It’s the most underrated breakfast food.”
“Right? People always say how bland and gross it is-”
“Not recognizing its potential.”
“Exactly!”
“Topped with raisins, I’m assuming?”
“I’ll have you know, blueberries are the superior option.”
“Fresh or frozen?” She asked.
“Frozen, of course,” I said.
“Cool,” she nodded.
Next, we went to the park to finish our drinks.
“Where should we sit?” Ellie asked.
I looked around. “No, that rock would be too hard, the grass would be too soft. Oh, look! There’s a bench down by the river!”
I rested my head on her shoulder. The sun's rays were just warm enough to balance out the cool breeze. The little voice in my head, verbalizing every discomfort, stifling my enjoyment of each moment, finally fell quiet. I was at peace. Dare I say it, she’s just right for me.
“You don’t have a habit of snacking in bed, do you?” Eille asked.
I was disgusted, “Oh, hell, no!”
“Okay,” she said. “Just checking.”