Uh-Oh Sparks
- Melissa Goodrich
- Aug 8
- 2 min read
Updated: Aug 14
My friends,
divorced or drifting,
swipe for company.
If it were me,
I could never—
I’d probably
just die alone.
I don’t believe
in soulmates
that arrive
by algorithm,
matching hobbies
or a list of curated books
on a profile.
(How pretentious.)
I believe in accidents—
the uh-oh spark
of recognition
in a public place,
two beings
colliding
like stars
across the
galaxy.
Maybe in the produce section,
my hand closing around
the firm neck
of a zucchini
as I admire it
a little too seriously,
when he looks up
from the tomatoes
and says,
“I wish my last date
looked at me like that,”
and I’d laugh
and we’d talk
just long enough
to be sure he doesn’t
work in finance,
on a pipeline,
or part-time
at a dispensary.
On our first date
I'd get nervous
not eat
a single bite,
probably drink
a little too much,
slip a clumsy hand
in the back of his jeans
as we walk
to the car—
because I always
make the first move.
He doesn't mind.
In the evenings,
we’d drink dark beer
and talk about
class consciousness,
workers’ rights,
and the rot
of corporate greed—
like we’d been
touching souls
for centuries.
Later, he’d chase me
down the hall
to the bedroom
tackling me
on unkempt sheets
like we’re
always
going to be young.
Our love
wouldn’t be mediated
through a screen,
and there’s no
bullshit or tiptoeing around
obscured meanings—
just truth
of the messiest kind.
We’d prep
dinner together
and bitch
about our days—
how the boss
does nothing
and takes all the credit—
so bourgeoisie.
We roll our eyes at
dogma,
and the
annoying shit
gym rats say
and he doesn't
make me watch
sports
and I love
that we hate
the same things.
Everything
and everyone else
seems so mundane
compared to a love
that arrived
like a summer storm—
untameable,
without warning,
no regard for
pre-scheduled
calendars,
or best laid plans.
That's the way it is
with the one
I'm married to now.
Because sometimes,
the best things
happen
when you
least expect them.
