Loving The Girl in the Rainbow Eyeliner

I remember the first time I ever laid eyes on her. She was wearing a white silk dress with dog-paw earrings, waving a rainbow flag in one hand while holding a neon green ice cream cone in the other. Her side-shaven brown hair kept blowing into her olive-brown face, almost taunting the fact that she had no hands left to resist its frequent gusts. I could tell it was making her self-conscious, and that she kept having to remind herself that she was just at the Pride festival to have a good time.

But even with the wind throwing her hair into a messy frizz, I thought she still looked stunning, with the rays from the sun highlighting her face and the rainbow eyeliner she wore so flawlessly. I couldn’t stop staring.

This would be the moment in any other story when I would go up to her, trying to start a conversation. We’d make out in some place, and I’d find myself waking up in her arms the next morning. But, as far as lesbians go, I’m far from the coolest. People expect most mascs to be tall, muscular, strong, and extremely flirty. Not me. Not because I didn’t want to, but mostly because I didn’t know how to be that way. I was the uncool lesbian: an awkward, autistic, asexual, demi-romantic, 5’1 nerd who just so happened to enjoy dressing like a tomboy, wolf-cuts and sideshaves, and had arms covered in tattoos. I had very few social skills, and since coming out over five years ago, I hadn’t ever successfully dated a girl. My friends all joked it was because I never talked to girls, but I insisted that I just wasn’t that into bars and hookup scenes, and traditional dating was never fun either. Where would I talk to a girl?

And, of course, there was the wheelchair. That was no help either.

I watched as her eyes danced happily from person to person, her voice sing-songing its way through the crowd. Then, she spotted me. Our eyes locked for what felt like an eternity, but before I knew it, she was fading back into the crowd. Until the wind sent one more fateful gust, her hair flew into her eyes, and her mint-chip ice cream smeared hopelessly onto her crisp white dress.

In that moment, I felt as if I flew. Before I knew it, I was rummaging through EpiPens and safe foods in my safety bag, trying to locate my emergency wipes and stain remover pen.

“Excuse me,” I said softly. “Looks like you could use these?”

“Yeah, I guess it does,” she replied, her hand brushing against mine as she grabbed the pen and wipes. “It’s amazing there is someone who actually still carries this stuff around.”

“When you’re me, you kinda don’t have a choice,” I squeaked. “Happy to be of service…”

Before long, we had struck up a conversation, exchanged numbers, and set up a coffee date at a bookstore not far from town. Then, she was gone. It was then that I noticed she held on to my pen and wipes. But I didn’t care, I was happy to be living in what felt like a fantasy. I had a date with a goddess; she could take whatever she liked.

On our fourth date, she later returned them to me, alongside a thank-you note with hand-drawn hearts and smiley faces. “I had to have a reason to keep seeing you,” she laughed.

It felt strange, having someone so wrapped up in seeing you that they acted like teenagers all over again. Even stranger was the fact that nothing about me scared her off. During our dates, when she found out about my allergies, she’d ask the waitress five times to ensure there was no cross-contamination. “I can’t have you dying on a date with me, I have street cred to keep,” she’d joke.

On hot summer days, she’d ask, “Can I push you?” and point to the wheelchair. She’d never plan dates at bars or raves, knowing I hated overwhelming stimuli. “Who needs to blow out their eardrums to enjoy each other’s company?” she’d prod, “Clubs and raves are for uncool single people.”

On the 10th date, she finally asked me about my wheelchair. I told her what I’d been dreading to share. “I have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome,” I said. “My health fluctuates every day, and I’m chronically ill – forever.” I was expecting her to jump back and sigh. To back out. To hate me. I had been convincing myself for months that she would move on eventually.

“I understand if dating someone with a chronic illness was not on your bingo card,” I said.

But all she said was, “As far as I’m concerned, you are the coolest person I’ve ever dated, and all of who you are is who I’m into.”

That was the moment I fell in love with her. Three months later, we were married.

Through the frequent hospital visits, surgeries, doctors' appointments, and quiet nights managing dizzy spells on the couch, she was there. Holding my hand. Hugging me close. Whispering “I love you” day and night. We were each other’s safe space and built a home out of love.

But on our tenth anniversary, the roles reversed. Suddenly, she was the one in the hospital bed, looking pale and afraid. And I was there by her side. They said it was cancer. Stage four. Incurable. She died 6 months later, still smiling at me. Our heavenly bliss, buried feet deep with her.

On what would have been our eleventh anniversary, I donned the rainbow eyeliner and stood outside on the park lawn where we first met, where the Pride festival is held every year. This time, I held the pride flag in one hand and the neon green mint-chip ice cream in the other. I looked for her in the crowd, even though I knew she wouldn’t be there. For a moment, I thought I saw her in her white silk dress, dancing in the wind as the sun's rays lit up her deep green eyes. She will always be with me. Because she taught me, love is beyond our physical limitations. Love is about sharing your life with someone so deeply that they never really die.

I may not be famous or rich. I’m still chronically ill. I am still horrible at pick-up lines and get overwhelmed at bright lights. I still can’t eat a simple PB&J because I’d die. For some people, that would be devastating. For me, it was destiny. My greatest victory in the world was sharing my life with her.