“Where do you want to go next?” asks Joey. I stop staring at the guy behind the counter and look down at my phone on the table in front of me. “Doesn’t matter,” I mutter. “Maybe a movie?” I turn my head just enough to watch the barista again — his thick fingers strumming against the countertop.
Buh-da-dum.
Buh-da-dum.
Buh-da-dum.
Buh-da-dum.
Buh-da-dum.
Buh-da-dum.
I bite my lip and I can taste his oils — dirty from handling other people’s money. I catch myself panting when Joey stands up and knocks his porcelain mug onto the floor. It cracks in two and suddenly the barista with dickfingers is swooping over to pick up the pieces. He squats down in front of me and I feel my face turn red and splotchy, which is the same reaction as when I drink tequila because I think I have a tequila allergy but don’t actually know that for a fact. I probably have just a second before he stands up, so I pivot my body and mime picking up a shard, just as he’s rising. His ass grazes my hip and slides up the side of my body until he’s standing upright with a khaki butt cheek planted against the side of my face.
“Oh shit,” I say feigning surprise. “My bad.” He looks over his shoulder at me with an expression that says, That was an accident and we should both bail, immediately.
“Oh shit,” I say feigning surprise. “My bad.” He looks over his shoulder at me with an expression that says, That was an accident and we should both bail, immediately.
But what if I’m reading his expression wrong? What if he’s thinking how embarrassed he is? Or what if he initiated this and he’s relishing the moment? What if he hurried over here when the mug broke just so he could be closer to me, if only for a couple seconds? What if he felt me behind him just now and poked his ass out to intentionally? What if the attraction I’ve had for him since he took my order* is flowing counter to his for me?
And…
And what if…
And what if this is our meet-cute?
This is the part where he starts laughing; little nasally snortlaughs and bunched up eyebrows. We stumble through apologies and brushing imaginary strands of hair away from our faces because that’s what people in movies do.
A year from now, we’ll talk about how clunky this whole scene was and he’ll describe my face as “red like a Solo cup,” because he’s said that phrase a million times since our first date at that Indian place. After that, he started using “red like a Solo cup” to describe anything he thought was beautiful. Even if it wasn’t red — which was weird at first and then my second favorite thing about him. On some nights after we’ve been drinking, I’ll rub his fingertips against my lips while we’re half-asleep and that will be my first favorite thing about him. Because it always has been.
We’ll date for a few months after the year anniversary and then things will begin to fall about because we’ve always been in different places. Me: Down on one knee, staring up into his confused face with a handful of ass a half-inch from my face. And him: Looking down at me and wondering what the fuck I’m doing. And then he clears his throat, steps directly over me, and excuses himself.
And just like that, our timeline — our future — disappears.
Later, at the movie theatre with Joey, I sit four rows behind and seven seats across from a guy with a full head of the most beautiful blond hair I’ve ever seen. I imagine accidentally brushing it when I pass, followed by our first long car ride together and a petty, easy break-up over the phone.
On my jog later, I pass a guy running in the opposite direction. I imagine taking a few more strides and turning to see him looking back at me. We’ll have sex on the third date and never again until his mom goes to the hospital and he calls me because he knows I’ll say, “Sure. You can come over.”
And when I finally go to sleep, I dream about being a little boy at summer camp. I sit on the edge of the volleyball court and stare at all the guys, inventing futures. One of the counselors, Kyle Gaudet, peels off his shirt and tosses it to the sand. "Rogers!" he barks. "Grab me a water." I stand up and rush to grab him a bottle.
This is how it starts, I think.
He has no idea what I've got planned for us.
This is how it starts, I think.
He has no idea what I've got planned for us.
*A medium cappuccino. Middle-of-the-road enough so he can't make any snap judgments about me, even though I didn’t want it.
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