Weirdos on This Planet

A story of love in six microchapters

Image by Sahad Babali

I

I once fell in love with a man because he didn’t like watermelons.
I first met the man at a birthday party of a mutual friend. It was a warm July evening, and everyone was getting tipsy over chilled white wine.
The woman who was celebrating her birthday placed a big bowl filled with wedges of watermelon on the table, and everyone started digging in with their forks, oohhing and aahhing with pleasure.
I was bored. I never cared much for watermelons, but I learned to keep this slight aversion of mine low key. People tend to think very highly of watermelons, and so, if left unchecked, my distaste usually elicits judgemental surprise: Really? No watermelons? What’s not to like about watermelons? To which the only plausible answer is — yes, I know I’m weird. So I busied myself with something else while the other guests said whatever they had to say about watermelons.
The man was equally indifferent, looking for something more interesting to engage with. “You don’t like watermelons!” he said with a smile. And then, with a conspiratorial tone, ”I thought I was the only weirdo on this planet. Apparently, I’m not.”
He was the first person I’d ever met who didn’t like watermelons and was honest about it.

II

Bonding over our shared distaste, we fell in love. I stopped fearing there was something wrong with me simply because watermelons don’t do it for me. Instead, I felt special, unique, and original — a perfect fit for my equally special, unique, and original man. Together, we were a unit that really stood out against the watermelon-craving masses.
The connection felt wonderful and real and durable and safe. After all, I had already spent a lifetime of complete indifference to watermelons, as had the man. Unless one of us started to like watermelons all of a sudden — which was highly unlikely — there was no reason why our love wouldn’t continue for as long as forever lasts.

Together, we were a unit that really stood out against the watermelon-craving masses.

III

My relationship with the man who didn’t like watermelons deepened. We were happy to find other things both of us uniquely didn’t like. We started collecting shared dislikes and came up with this:

A list of things the man and I both uniquely don’t like

1. Watermelons
2. Ankle socks
3. Anything broken

I have to admit the ankle socks thing was a bit of an issue. The thing is, I don’t like ankle socks, period. Never have, never will. The man was not as resolved: he had nothing against ankle socks in general. It was specifically red ankle socks that he found distasteful. The fact that we weren’t wholly and completely aligned felt like a terrible rift. We had a tearful fight followed by a calm, heart-to-heart conversation about how we felt about ankle socks. Eventually, we made up and had a lovely, watermelon-less evening.

We continued finding weird things both of us uniquely didn’t like. Every time we found something, we added it to the list, carefully grooming our shared collection. We grew closer and closer, secured in the sense that it was just the two of us against the world of average watermelon-eating, ankle-socks-wearing, broken-things-loving people.

IV

Summer turned into fall, fall became winter, and suddenly it was spring. By then, the man and I had reached a total of 13 things both of us uniquely didn’t like, and we were proud of this accomplishment. We wanted to celebrate with our friends, so we met with them for dinner at a cozy restaurant. It was the same crew from the birthday party where the man and I first met. Our friends were happy and jolly, and of course, everyone — except for us two — was wearing ankle socks.
The waitress offered ice cream for dessert. “Pistachio ice cream for me, please,” said the man. The waitress immediately lit up. “Oh, I love pistachio ice cream!” She said with a smile, and then added with a conspiratorial tone: “I thought I was the only weirdo on this planet! Apparently, I’m not.”
They started talking about all the things both of them uniquely liked very much. The man reached for a clean napkin, and the waitress pulled out her pen, and together they created this:

A list of things the man and the waitress both uniquely like

1. Pistachio ice cream
2. Water
3. Melons

V

After that night, things started to feel different between us. The man would no longer talk about watermelons with me and didn’t want to continue collecting things both of us uniquely didn’t like. He accused me of being petty and impossible. I was mad at him for being a spineless flake uncommitted to his values.
One night we had a big fight. “Maybe pistachio ice cream is what you need to calm down!” I yelled furiously. He went to get ice cream, and still, things didn’t feel better.
We drifted apart, each of us tending to our respective individual lists of likes and dislikes.
Eventually, we split.

VI

Summer came again, hot and sunny, and watermelons everywhere. One day I saw the man sitting on a bench with a woman. She was wearing a dress that had a bright watermelon print pattern. It was the pistachio ice cream waitress.

The man and the waitress were sharing a single cone of green-colored ice cream, each taking a spoonful in turns. She accidentally smeared a speckle of green across her nose, and he laughed and then kissed it off. She reached for his cheek and caressed it lightly, saying something that I couldn’t catch. He casually placed his palm over her shin, and I noticed the waitress was wearing white sneakers. I could just barely catch an unmistakable hint of red peeping from the rim of her shoe.
Red ankle socks. Ha.
Together they were two weirdos connected through a shared love of pistachio ice cream, standing out from the masses of vanilla.

It would last as long as forever lasts.