We spent our four nights together knowing that we would never see each other again. The second to last night that we spent together, I asked Calla what our relationship would look like if we went to the same university. “Why are you spending time thinking about that?” she asked, not unkindly. The lights were off as we lay in my hotel bed, staring at the off-center chandelier. It was a Monday night, and Calla would have to go to class in the morning. I didn’t say anything. I was embarrassed. Perhaps she did not spend time pondering various hypotheticals as we lay next to each other in bed. “I do like you,” Calla said softly, taking my hand, “I don’t want you to think I’m some sort of whore. I wouldn’t be here if there was someone else. I’m not hooking up with anyone. I really like you.”
I believed her; the first day I was in Scotland, as I sat on the floor of her dorm with Cole, my friend from high school whom I was visiting, a boy had texted to ask Calla on a date on Sunday. This occurred on a Saturday, and on Sunday night, as we lay in Calla’s slim twin bed, I asked her what had happened on the date. She furrowed her brow. “I’m not going to go on that date. I’m here with you.”
We spent every night of the four nights I was in St. Andrews together. There wasn’t much to do at night other than sit in my hotel room. Most shops closed around 8pm, and my hotel room consisted merely of a bed, so all we could do was be with one another, and we chose to curl up and watch movies. Calla hated making choices, so the task of picking a movie fell to me. I showed her two of my favorite movies: Us and Bodies, Bodies, Bodies, and she loved both. While we watched, Calla would scratch my back. I let her pick at the blackheads, which she found extra satisfying. “Ooh!” she’d exclaim, “That was a good one!” as she scratched off a dot of skin. She would kiss me without the intention of going further. Calla had gotten her period the second night, and she told me that because we only had four nights together, she would rather talk and learn about me. I cannot remember kissing her, but I can imagine her laughing at my jokes and raving about Fleabag.
Our dialogue was filled with laughter and peppered with pecks to the shoulder and cheek. We spoke about the lives we wanted: Calla wanted to finish her education in Europe and live in Taiwan, whereas I wanted to write and had no idea where it would take me. We talked about death. My grandmother had died while I was in Scotland, and the night after she passed, Calla brought me purple bars of Cadbury chocolate. Earlier that day, I had sat on the cold Scottish beach and cried as I wrote about her in my journal. My seemingly eternal grandmother was gone. I could still hear her voice saying my name and calling me ma cherie. My grandmother lived with me for much of my childhood; I share her middle name, and she is the primary reason I can speak French, so I cried because she would not get to see everything I would do– all of which I can attribute to her. I filled pages and pages with memories of my grandmother. Before she passed, my father had organized a tribute book to her, and I’d sent emails and photos of Princeton to her. Our time together was over, but my grandmother knew how much I loved her, and now, that was what mattered most.
“I’m not going to cry in front of you,” I said to Calla as we sat in my bed.
“It’s okay if you do,” she replied, “My grandfather died a few years ago.”
I told her I was sorry.
“Don’t be.”
She got up to shower. I sat on the bed, staring at the words in my book. My family was an ocean away, and the only comfort I received came from a girl I had met two days before, yet I felt incomprehensibly comfortable. I wanted Calla to come back to bed. The room was quite confined, so there was probably about a foot of space between the end of the bed and the bathroom door. I heard the water stop running and then her sighing loudly. “Are you okay?” I asked through the door. Calla did not respond. When she came into the bedroom, I repeated the question. “I hate myself,” she said plainly. “You’ve met me at a very insecure time in my life.” I asked her what she was insecure about. She’d gained weight and felt ugly. Her sister was blue-eyed and blonde; Calla was not. She apologized for complaining. “You’re the one who’s had a horrible day! I should be comforting you.”
“Let’s just watch something.”
Calla pulled up 123movies, and we watched The Shining and ate chocolate. Months earlier, my friends made us walk out of a screening of The Shining because they were so scared. Now laying in the hotel bed with Calla, our fingers and legs intertwined, The Shining did not scare me so much.
I knew I was going to cry after I left Scotland, so I made a playlist to listen to on the plane. When I went to bed the next night, I would be alone. There’d be no back-scratches or movies. I felt bare; it was not unlike a blanket being snatched off of you in the cold night or being let go from a hug. My row on the plane was empty, so I laid down and listened to “24 Hours” by Sky Ferreira and “What Was That” by Lorde. “What Was That,” did not perfectly match the feelings I was hoping to illuminate through music, because I knew perfectly well what this was: a fling. I did not know, though, how meaningful it would be.
“Meaningful fling” might seem oxymoronic. The word “fling” itself implies something tossed—it’s simple and short term. But this is exactly why a fling is perfect for discovering meaning: there are no stakes. With a fling, you know it will end. In fact, the point is, your fling will end, so every moment becomes that much more intentional. For example, with this fling, we spent our time talking and learning about each other because we knew we only had so much time to do so. There’s a sense of urgency, which results in a passion that a long-term relationship could never know. The intimacy of a fling is much more concentrated than the intimacy of a long-term relationship; a long-term relationship’s intimacy is often diluted with questions of “What if they don’t like this side of me?” and “What if they leave because of me?”, whereas a fling does not fear an unexpected end. With a fling, there’s a desperation to make the most of it– to become an essential memory in another person’s life, to prove your vulnerability will not deter another person. I smile to myself knowing that even though we would only know each other for four days, we still chose to be together.
I didn’t text Calla when I got home. I told her the morning I left that I was glad I got to know her. I kissed her for the last time behind my hotel door, then simply hugged her alongside Cole and the rest of their friends when my cab arrived. Not texting, as douchey as it sounds, is necessary to preserve a fling. The relationship then becomes contained to the time you spent together; it is not elongated by any attempts to drag it out. The fling then becomes a joyous story to tell your friends, even though you might’ve cried about it on the plane or filled 10 journal pages about it.
For a while, I thought I was one of those ‘all-or-nothing’ people. I thought something more than a hookup but less than a relationship would just be pointless, and what was the point of doing something without a purpose? But in our embrace of the fear that it might mean nothing, the time we spent together became everything.
Soa Andriamananjara instructs the Nassau Weekly on Spring Fling-ing… I, for one, am taking notes.