Crashing at a friend’s house to play Pokemon. Table in front of us spread with Cheetos, chocolate-covered marshmallows, pizza, soda for him, water for me. Pokemon movies playing on his wide screen, which we’re both not watching.
Myself, as per usual. My friend. My Garchomp, aka Sharknado. Both on the couch, feet up, hoodies pulled over our heads for maximum comfort, staring at our 3DS screens.
Battling each other. Jen wins.
Battling each other. He wins.
Double battle against two other friends. We win.
We stop to eat pizza.
After pizza, we fall back into our own routines. He starts biking around the Battle Resort to hatch Pokemon eggs, while I play with my babies on Pokemon Amie.
We play some more. I become engrossed with my Garchomp. I’m doing that thing where you can make your Pokemon mimic your facial expressions through the 3DS front camera, and it’s utterly adorable.
“I love you,” I whisper to my Garchomp.
My friend drops his 3DS and turns to face me, his face registering disbelief. “Really?” he asks. “I mean, I love you too…but I never thought you felt the same way.”
I blink at him.
“What. Wait. What?”
He’s all smiles and he looks so happy that I can almost imagine his facial expression when I tell him he’s wrong. He’s holding my hand now and I’m trying my best not to burst out laughing.
“So…does this mean we’re dating now?”
I sigh, let go of his hand, pick up my 3DS, and point to my Garchomp.
His face pales.
I nod. “Yup.”
He facepalms, literally. It’s the first time I’ve seen someone do it in real life, so I’m fascinated. It sounds like it hurt a lot, though.
“You were saying you loved your Garchomp,” he repeats. “Not me.”
I shrug. “Sorry,” I say as nicely as possible.
He grabs my 3DS from me and pretends to shake it. “Dude, stop cockblocking me,” he complains laughingly.
“I’m glad you’re not mad,” I tell him.
He’s the one who shrugs this time. “Mad? No. Embarrassed? Yes, a lot.”
I give him a hug. “It’s okay, sweetie.”
He taps me on the nose. “You better go home now,” he says. “I need to cry my eyes out.”
I hug him one last time. “It really is time for me to go home. See you next week?”
He smiles at me, and this time it seems vulnerable. It makes me feel protective of him all of a sudden. “I don’t know, I’ll let you know. Araso?”
“Araso yo,” I echo.
“Later, Jenna Banana.”
“Don’t call me that!”
He messes my hair. “Go,” he says, shooing me out. “Call me when you get home.”
I tried. Calling him, I mean. But he’s not answering.