Page 74 of The Girlfriend's Guide to Dating a Biker
I learned that he owns a blowtorch
We both learned that I should not be left alone with said blowtorch
We’re in a situationship / domestic beta-test / unofficial emotional partnership / whatever they call it when a man who terrifies half of Brisbane now keeps oat milk in his fridge for you.
Anyway. I made another spreadsheet. Because that’s what I do when I’m emotionally derailed but sexually stabilised by a hot biker who knows where I keep my anxiety meds and makes me French toast.
It’s titled “This Year’s Budget” for plausible deniability purposes. (No one opens a budget spreadsheet voluntarily. Not even Megan. Especially not Jake.)
Inside, there are tabs for:
“Feral Tension Tracker” (currently hardcoded at 100% — uneditable, non-negotiable, and possibly a feature not a bug)
“Emotional Stability Forecast” (mine: like a crypto crash at midnight—unexpected, catastrophic, and ruining my sleep schedule; his: suspiciously calm and possibly running on a different internal OS, likely suspect: Outlaw Biker Linux)
“Incidents of Soft Launch Behaviour” (we’re at nine, not including the French toast or the time he put a case on my phone that has military-grade drop protection and said, “in case you drop it again”)
“Likelihood We’re Dating But Haven’t Said It Yet” (currently at 91%, but rising daily thanks to the number of his T-shirts in my closet and his complete lack of protest)
I also included a formula to calculate the likelihood that I’m falling in love based on three key inputs:
The number of seconds his hand stays on my lower back after he opens a door for me
The intensity rating (1-10) of “that look” he gives me when I speak fluent nerd
The exact way he tightens the strap on my helmet like he’s been trusted with something fragile
(Yes, I’m aware this is emotionally unsound methodology. No, I will not be seeking peer review.)
The formula broke halfway through and now just says:
def calculate_love_risk():
return emotionally_unstable_af
I’m considering putting it on a mug.
Oh, and I added a new tab to my spreadsheet last week: “Jake’s Mum’s Movie Rankings” Also known as: the spreadsheet that bonded me to his mum.
Her name’s Mags. And she’s soft and sharp and strong in a way that made me want to sit and ask for life advice and scone recipes. We had dinner at her place last week. She hugged me the second she opened the door. She made lasagna. Real lasagna. Not packet mix. Homemade.
She sent me the recipe the next day. I don’t even cook. But I saved it. Immediately. In a new folder. Labelled “Mags.”
We also talked about movies. Laughed so hard we both cried at one point. And when Jake left the table to grab drinks, she leaned over and said, “He smiles different when you’re around.”
Tell me how I’m supposed to emotionally recover from that, please. Because I haven’t. I think I’m falling in love. But also, possibly developing a secondary spreadsheet-based attachment to his mother.
Is that normal?
Don’t answer that.
So, anyway, that’s where we’re at. Jake and I are basically shut-ins because the man is filthy and can’t keep his hands to himself. Any time I tell him we should leave the apartment like normal people with vitamin D requirements, he reminds me of the little metaphorical box I “ticked” that gave him consent to ruin me responsibly. (As if I need reminding. My thighs remind me daily.)
The only exception to our hermit lifestyle has been the pool hall, where he insists on “teaching” me. I put that in quotes because my skills have not improved AT ALL, which leads me to conclude that either a) he’s pretending to teach me so he can stand behind me and manhandle my hips, or b) he is, in fact, a terrible teacher. Possibly both. Either way, I still can’t sink a ball to save my life, and I’m beginning to get concerned I won’t be able to wipe that smugness off my brother’s face when he comes home for Christmas this year.
That all leads me to today. And what happened this afternoon.
I was walking home from work. I’d had a day. One of our junior devs tried to fix a typo and took down the staging server; my code reviewer said my variable names “lack cohesion”; and I spilled red wine on my WHITE shirt while stress-ranting to Megan over a pub lunch.
