"Well, that went as well as expected."

  Getting out of the taxi at the Las Vegas Airport, I couldn't help but let out a sigh. Not just your typical run-of-the-mill bit of heavy exhale of breath, but the kind that can only be expressed after emotionally navigating spending extensive time with family as an adult. This particular sigh came after a long wedding weekend with my well-meaning but exhausting relatives. The taxi driver even glanced at me with a sad, knowing smile.

  Though considering the location, he probably assumed I had just lost my mortgage at the blackjack tables.

  I don't know why I expected the weekend to go any differently—this wasn’t my first family wedding rodeo. My current generational batch had all seemingly hit that phase where they decided it was time to tie the knot. That late-20s to early-30s period when people become convinced they need a collection of cliché social media posts to showcase just how special their love is, yet somehow end up producing near-identical content.

  If you have social media, you know exactly the photos I’m talking about: the intimate hug while gazing into the distance, followed by the forced candid laugh where someone’s mouth is way too open as if to scream, "Look how genuine and in love we are!"

  I swear I’m not the cynical type, I'm just peopled out right now.

  With a decently sized family, I had been seeing these photos pop up every few months like clockwork.

  Walking through the automatic doors, the rush of air conditioning hit me like a starving man at an all-you-can-eat buffet. I chided myself for expecting anything different with my family. Every wedding was the same—a near-constant stream of undiplomatic reminders that I wasn’t living up to their expectations. My family had a habit of gently prodding (and sometimes outright pushing) about my life choices.

  It was the standard checklist: career, romance, and my overall lack of an interesting five-year plan they could brag about to their friends.

  This wedding however had been slightly different, set in Las Vegas rather than the usual Southeast locations where most of my family was spread out. My cousin Sam had moved here two years ago after landing a job as a professional welder on a casino project—an endeavor met with mixed commentary from my aunts and uncles. Predictably, he had met the love of his life, Emmalee—a 24-year-old waitress who struck me as someone who had peaked in her career.

  Not that there’s anything remotely wrong with waitressing. It was more that she carried herself with the expression of someone constantly confused and faking that she wasn’t. Contrary to what you are probably thinking of me right now I really am not overly critical, but it’s hard not to form an opinion when the bride looks lost at her own wedding. Through all the speeches and conversations, I think the most complex word I heard Emmalee say was her own name during the vows.

  Normally I would have politely declined the invite, bought them the lowest cost gift from the registry that didn’t make me look cheap, and moved on. However, my cousin had dangled a tempting pre-wedding event—a "classy boys’ outing" featuring an afternoon hike in Red Rock Canyon followed by a steakhouse dinner. Being a hiker who lived in Florida, the chance to see the famous red sandstone peaks was too good to pass up. I bought the plane ticket, dry-cleaned my suit, and prepared for adventure.

  Then the party van pulled up to "Red Rock Canyons"—a strip club—on buffet night. Apparently, I was the only one in the van not in on the joke.

  The highlight that evening was the Friday pudding wrestling tournament with my cousin having the biggest shit-eating grin. I sat in the corner with a water, and waited for the night to be over.

  I really should have known better with my luck.

  Shaking off the memories, I refocused on airport logistics. Spotting my airline check-in counter, I made my way over, joining a line that was at least 40 people deep. With another sigh, I resigned myself to the wait. At the sound of my exhale, the woman in front of me glanced back.

  Speaking of my luck…

  "Lloyd!"

  "Oh… hey there, Courtney."

  Before me stood Courtney, a 31-year-old fifth-grade English teacher from Sarasota, Florida, with curly brown hair and glasses. She wore black leggings and a striped, long-sleeved travel-friendly top that complemented her slim frame. In one hand, she clutched a half-empty frappuccino and a battered leather carry-on bag. In the other, she dragged a pink roller bag adorned with a designer label.

  I knew a lot about Courtney.

  Too much, actually.

  She was the second cousin to the bride, though they had been close years ago when Courtney had crashed on her family's couch post-college. I had learned her life story over three hours of polite but awkward conversation at the wedding reception. She had studied political science in Arizona, spent some time "finding herself," then returned to Florida, eventually earning her teaching license. She adored Disney+, knitting, and was currently saving up for a Peloton after learning Joe Biden was still a fan.

  How did I know all of this? Because my family, despite my best efforts, had decided I just "hadn’t met the right person yet." Even after coming out as asexual they remained convinced it was some phase, leading to habitual strategic wedding seat placements. This was the third time I’d been sat next to an age-appropriate single woman at a wedding. Only once had it been a single guy—with fantastic hair, at least.

  "Funny running into you here! Makes sense, though, that you’d be flying out the day after the wedding," Courtney said with a nervous smile.

  "Yup, heading back to Orlando. Work tomorrow."

  A heavy feeling settled in my gut. "You wouldn’t happen to be on the 1 PM flight to Atlanta, would you?"

  Her smile brightened. "Why yes! I have a layover before heading home."

  I forced a laugh. "Small world. Looks like we’ll be seeing a bit of each other again."

  We shuffled forward in line, engaging in the obligatory small talk. At one point, she blushed while admitting, "I just miss my own bed and shower. There’s nothing like your own water pressure."

  "I agree," I replied. "Trips are great, but they mostly remind you of how good you have it at home."

  The line crept forward. A few spots ahead, a six-year-old boy started chewing on the fabric barrier of the line stanchion. His mother, exhausted, looked away, resigned to let him continue.

  "So, work tomorrow, huh?" Courtney asked. "Have a lot of… uh, audits to do?"

  I mentally groaned. People always misunderstood my job as a third-party auditor, imagining me as a grumpy, hunched-over figure glaring at spreadsheets. In reality, most of my time was spent chasing down information, deciphering it, and making presentations for executives.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Instead of explaining, I just said, "Yuppers. Always a few dumpster fires to put out."

  Did I really just say "yuppers"? Wow, I think I am actually forgetting how to talk like a human right now.

  The line moved again. The fabric-chewing kid ran after his family, leaving a wet imprint of his mouth on the barrier. As we passed by the spot, I kept myself on the other side of the line.

  "Are you an aisle or window person?" I asked, throwing out a new topic after a long period of silence.

  "Window all the way! Love watching where I’m going, even if I have no control. You?"

  "Hardcore aisle person. Hate climbing over people to use the bathroom. Plus, I’m tall. More room."

  She nodded, understanding.

  As we reached the counter with the airline agent checking tickets and IDs, we exchanged a look—relief, mostly.

  "Well, looks lik—"

  "NEXT!"

  She was called first, then me. I handed over my ID and watched my roller bag disappear down the conveyor belt.

  Courtney was still at her counter when I finished. I saw my opportunity for escape.

  Catching her eye, I blurted, "Hey, I need to run to the bathroom. Catch you at the gate."

  I turned and power-walked away.

  Glancing back, I caught her expression shift from confusion to an intense glare.

  Oh. I may have made a mistake somewhere.

  Avoiding eye contact with anyone, I hurried toward the nearest restroom, hoping I didn’t look as much like a coward as I felt.

  Lacing up my hiking shoes after passing through security, I tried to console myself with the excuse that I really did need to stop at the bathroom to empty my water bottle. But I knew the truth. I could have just dumped it out at the weird, oversized water trashcan in the security line. The fact that I had spent an extra ten minutes in the restroom, waiting to ensure there was some distance between us, tore apart any flimsy justification I might have offered.

  I had just been struggling to deal with an uncomfortable situation and grabbed onto the nearest thing that felt like an escape.

  Straightening up and adjusting my bag, I took a deep breath and willed myself to act like an adult.

  In case it wasn’t already obvious, on top of sometimes being an awkward person, I have never handled romantic advances or flirtation well. You’d think I would have gotten better at it by now, considering how often I seem to deal with it—from both men and women. Something about me seems to flip a subconscious switch in people’s heads that I’m “flirt-able”. This convinces them I’m someone they should make a pass at. Maybe it’s because I make an effort to be kind and polite, or maybe it's just some cosmic joke at my expense.

  Either way, I have always tried to respond with honesty and respect to such advances—with mixed results.

  A lot of people take rejection personally, as if my lack of romantic interest is some kind of personal criticism. Over the years, I’ve been blamed for being too polite to tell the truth, for not being polite enough, and even for being a straight-up tease. And those reactions are still better than the ones where I’ve been accused of just being "too far in the closet to realize my true feelings"—which, according to certain men who I am no longer friends with, they could help me uncover if I just "trusted them enough."

  I had mentioned at the beginning of the wedding reception to Courtney that I don’t date, but it didn’t feel like the explanation took. She had kept trying to engage with me, and I was just too awkward to say anything more.

  For a long time, I thought I was broken. It wasn’t until my mid-20s that I was able to be truly honest with myself: I’m just built a certain way.

  Before that realization, I had spent years trying to force something that wasn’t there, following the old "fake it till you make it" philosophy. I had left a trail of empty relationships with incredibly unfulfilled partners in my wake, and put myself into situations that in hindsight were more traumatic than I wanted to admit. Because at the end of the day while I love the idea of romance, sex, and companionship, whatever mechanism makes a person desire and enjoy those things...I just don’t have it.

  And that’s okay.

  It took me years to recognize that I’m not broken. I’m asexual. And I am no more or less than anyone else because of it.

  People sometimes try to explain asexuality by comparing it to a blind person trying to understand a painting. Sure, you can describe the painting in detail, but without sight, the person lacks the context to truly comprehend it. While I think there’s some truth in that analogy, it never quite captured my experience.

  For me, it’s more like standing on a beach, trying to learn how to surf by watching someone out in the ocean. I can intellectually understand what they’re doing, but I’m not feeling the actual experience. I don’t sense the gentle pull of the currents, the sudden force of an incoming wave, or even the most basic feeling of water surrounding me.

  I shook my head, snapping myself out of my musings. Dwelling on ideals and mechanics didn’t justify my rudeness.

  By now, I was nearing my gate, and I slowed when I saw the seating area. There, near the outer edge, Courtney had staked her claim on a prime spot with an unused wall outlet. She looked settled, her belongings spread out strategically. She really did seem like she had a good head on her shoulders. Honestly, I liked her as a person. If nothing else, I had to give credit to whoever had tried to set us up for having good taste in human beings.

  Steeling myself, I made eye contact and approached her. She noticed me and smiled—though this one was noticeably less warm than before, it felt like there were more teeth to it than there should be. Fair enough. I stopped a few feet away.

  "Hey."

  "Hey."

  "Look," I started, "I think I owe you an apology. I handled tha—"

  "You’re a fag," she spat.

  My brain stalled. "I... what?"

  "I get it," she sneered. "Figures that Emmalee would invite me to her wedding just to set me up with a gay guy."

  "Wait, did you just say—"

  "I am so pathetic, giving someone like you the time of day."

  "Time? No, I’m n—"

  "I should’ve known it was too good to be true after she called me. I got my hopes up when I saw that you were cute. Figured you were straight with those shoes."

  "Wait...my shoes?"

  "No, your face."

  "My...face?"

  "Yes, your shoes! Seriously, who wears hiking shoes everywhere?"

  "...I mean, I didn’t wear them to the wedding—"

  "NOT WHAT I MEANT!"

  Heads turned. People were watching now.

  I looked down at Courtney and realized she had shifted. The warm, friendly woman I had met at the wedding was gone. In her place was someone wound tight, radiating quiet fury. I don’t think this was just about me.

  This was someone looking for a fight for some reason. And unfortunately, I was the current target.

  "I’m going to walk that way," I said, pointing back toward the terminal.

  Courtney nodded sharply.

  I turned and practically sprinted.

  Well, shit. That was new.

  I’d had my fair share of weird and awkward reactions over the years, but nothing that... intense.

  An hour later, I sat at a grey-tiled airport bar, nursing my second weakly mixed rum and Coke. The place had that generic "trying too hard to be a hipster pub" aesthetic, which was funny to me given that it was inside an airport terminal. The energy in the room practically hummed with waiting—patrons half-heartedly scrolling through their phones, wait staff taking their time delivering checks, the whole place stagnant with pre-flight lethargy.

  Since sitting down, I had cycled through confusion, frustration, and finally, tired acceptance. Something else must have been brewing in Courtney’s life before I had ever stepped into it. My awkward rejection which as slight as it was, had just lit the fuse.

  Still, the slur had caught me off guard.

  I mean, assuming I was gay? Whatever. Binary thinking is easy for people. Either you like men or you like women, and if you don’t like one, then you must like the other. It’s a simple, lazy worldview. But her reaction? Her anger? And that word?

  She was a teacher. I had assumed she’d be at least somewhat of an LGBTQ ally based on her whole vibe. Guess not, maybe she secretly binged Fox News or something.

  I glanced at my phone. My flight will be boarding soon.

  I sighed—one of too many I had let slip that day. The thought of running into Courtney again made my stomach twist, but odds were we’d see each other again with us being on the same plane until we reached Atlanta.

  Leaving cash for my barely drinkable cocktails, I grabbed my bag and made my way toward the gate. My mind ran through my options. Ignore her? Might provoke her further. Confront her? Definitely a bad idea.

  I settled on the passive middle ground. If she made eye contact, I’d give her a polite nod and let her decide from there.

  Then, about 300 feet from my gate, something caught my eye.

  It was the bank of slot machines in the middle of the gates, lined up and looking like giant iPads.

  I’m in Vegas and I realized I hadn’t gambled, not even once.

  Figuring what the heck, I pulled a ten-dollar bill from my pocket, walked over, picked a machine labeled Platinum Dungeon, and fed it the cash.

  I hit the arcade-like buttons and the digital wheels spun. I chanced a glance toward my gate—boarding had started, and people had started to get into something resembling a line.

  Then, the machine stopped showing the same strange letters.

  μ μ μ

  μ μ μ

  μ μ μ

  Greek letters? Weird, they were on all roller sections of the game and the game seems to be frozen. Maybe a glitch.

  Then the floor disappeared beneath me, and everything went black.