Blue mohawk down the center, sides dyed green. She wore combat boots with baggy pants and a crass t-shirt, no bra. All in the same breath, she informed me that she was an anarchist, wanted roller skates for Christmas, and was good enough at embroidery to charge for her services.

Obviously, I was smitten.

We were watching Dead Poet Society with a group of friends, pointing out all the queer-coding within film. I said something half funny, and from across the room, she looked at me with a grin and wrinkled her nose, not outright laughing, but taunting. I wanted her to keep looking at me like that, because in that instant, she was the most beautiful person I’d ever met. But the moment ended, and she turned back to the movie.

A few nights later we (the same friend group) were watching Love, Simon, critiquing the straight characters. I’d taken the worst seat in the room, and she ran over.

“Why don’t you go take my spot on the other couch?” she said. “I can sit here.” She was so close, grinning at me again.

I decided to be brave. “Maybe I’d rather cuddle?” I tried to sound more playful than flirtatious, bouncing my shoulder against hers. A few minutes later she got up and moved back to the other couch. I don’t think she knows I’m not straight.

People filed out after the movie ended, but we and two others stayed. It was snowing outside, so we all pressed our faces to the window.

“Let’s go play in the snow,” she announced.

The two others yawned and said they didn’t want to get their PJ’s wet. I didn’t want to go out in the cold, either, but I said I’d go if she did.

We slipped outside, wearing nothing but flannel and jeans, our skin turning red against the flurries. She tossed snowballs at the building behind us, trying to hit certain windows or beams.

I wrapped my arms around myself and pretended not to look at her.

When our hands were frozen numb, we shuffled inside to sit near the fireplace in the lobby. I propped my feet up near the warmth, and she pressed her fingers to the glass between her and the fire, giggling at the sound of her sizzling flesh.

She told me she had work early in the morning and shouldn’t stay up too late. I told her it was already 1 a.m.—what difference would another hour make? But she laughed off that suggestion.

As she made her way toward the elevator, she held the door open questioningly, but I smiled and motioned toward the stairs. I live a few floors lower than her. She shrugged and let the doors slide shut between us.

I wish I was more of an anarchist.