If Dante Alighieri’s view of Hell happens to be true, most people would probably place me in either the Second Circle, reserved for those overcome by lust, or the Sixth, which is the home for heretics. I myself have always figured I’d fit perfectly into the First Circle, the one set aside for those of us who are basically on the fence. I don’t know what to believe, and I think it’s rather arrogant of any of my fellow bags o’ flesh to think they have it all figured out. But there are times that I can’t help but think stars may have aligned themselves when certain coincidences become to hard to ignore.

D* and I had met online, as with many of my current friends in Philly, and we quickly developed a certain rapport. He was only a few days older than me, funny, and intelligent, with mutual interests. We had been e-mailing each other for about a week when my girlfriend Leslie came into town from Charleston. That night after I picked up Miss L from the airport, we eventually made our way to a hip basement bar in Old City to meet up with her friend from boarding school. We were having a fantastic time, as her buddy relayed stories of the rebellious, competitive, teenage Leslie, and soon it was my turn to cover another round of libations. As I made my way to the fairly empty bar, I looked over, and out of the corner of my eye, saw someone who looked familiar. Very familiar. It wasn’t until I made my way back to my posse that I realized that the individual who caught my attention was D. Alas, the next time I strutted over to the bar, he was nowhere to be found.

“Was that you?”, I e-mailed the next day.

“Uh, yeah. I didn’t even see you.”

“Weird.”

And we left it at that.

Exactly a week later to the day, my free-spirited, first Philly female friend, Brooke, texted me about a queer punk show with Team Dresch on west side of town. Now, I’m not into vajay-jay, but have never been adverse to being in any sort of gay social situation. For some reasons, dykes and homos and I always mix together quite well. Gay men love my “fuck it” attitude and that deep down, I’m just one of them, while gay women think I’m cute, and deep down, think I’m one of them also. Everybody wins!

So we finally hit the Tavern, paid the cover, got our beers, leered at a girl who had done Brooke wrong, and made our way to the other side of the room. And guess who I saw conversing with an affectionate, art-punky female couple. Yep. It was D.

Earlier that day, D and I had made plans to meet for drinks on Friday night, but here he was, 24 hours before our initial date, the second time in the course of a week, on the way opposite side of town. But this time I wasn’t going to be passive. I tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned around with confused curiosity.

“This is going to sound strange, but are you D?”

“Yeeeaah. You’re not Jess, are you?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.”

“I know, right?”

“How…?”

“I dunno!”

Simultaneously: “Weeeeeird.”

So I officially met D that night, and we watched angry lesbians scream into the mics while standing side by side. The next night, we had our first official date in Center City, and after a couple of beers, he asked if I wanted to see the best secret view of Philly. I was game, so we finished our lagers, and he took me down the block to the Loews hotel and up to the 33rd floor.

The floor was abandoned except for us, and hosted huge wraparound windows overlooking every view of the city imaginable. He very sweetly put his arm around my waist and pointed out bridges and landmarks, but I kept looking up at the stars and wondering if there really is such a thing as a coincidence.

Ugh, I know. How disgustingly sugary-sweet, indeed. Don’t worry, I’ll be back to my usual cynical, pissed-off self in no time. You know how I roll.

*blah, blah, innocent, blah, blah.