Attraction

His back straightens when he sees her.

I’m sitting quietly at my table, enjoying what remains of my crassly expensive hot chocolate, when I hear the door open from behind me. As most might, I looked to see who might be walking in. It’s something most people in the store did, actually, so I can only imagine how she might have felt to walk into a store and suddenly be seen by at least twelve different souls.

She’s blonde, her hair falls down in waves just above her waist — a waist that is hugged by a black skirt, which itself falls over black tights. Black leather boots climb her calves, stopping just short of her knees. Her peacoat appears to be violet, but in this lighting — and in my illness — it could very well be a vibrant shade of blue. A bronze pin pierces her lapel; a sunflower, stem and all. Her skin is pale, though her makeup…well, her face is three shades darker than her hands. Her grey scarf just barely hides the point where the paint ends and flesh begins, though who am I to judge? I can barely tell mascara from, Christ, whatever else it is women use to cover blemishes.

She’s attractive nonetheless, and I’m not the only person to notice.

The man in front of her sees it too, and I wonder if his noticing her is more blatant than mine. A writer can take quick mental notes — images burn themselves into the mind, perfected quotes to remember for later description and possible exaggeration. My notes were taken in what seemed like an instant, his were…well, his were lasting. Perhaps he wanted to make sure she saw him. Perhaps he wanted to leave an impression.

His sweater, an eggshell cable-knit with overdone holiday patterns, would most definitely make sure of that.

It was a size too small, something I guessed from his incessant need to reach up and pull the collar away from his neck. The poor man must have been uncomfortable. Underneath his sweater he wore a gingham button-up, with the sleeves pulled back and up his forearms. Pressed khakis lined his legs, and brown suede wingtips encased his feet.

He noticed her. She walked in, bringing in a gust of cold air with her, and we all noticed her. Beforehand the place was silent as the grave, the only sounds being churned out by ghosts of steam from espresso and milk. Her entrance was a disruption to our warmth — our peace. But as the door closed, most patrons returned to their drinks.

The man was next in line, but his gaze lingered on her for more than a handful of seconds. His hands, per usual, reached up to tug the collar away from his neck, and he straightened his back. His chest went from recessed to barreled, and in an instant he went from everyday orderer of coffee to, well, a more muscular everyday orderer of coffee. When he was called up to place an order, he coughed into his hand to deepen his voice. Black coffee, venti, room.

While he waited, he stole quick, silent looks at the blonde in the little black dress. How could he not? She was, after all, attractive. I kept waiting to see if this would turn into one of those moments from a romantic comedy movie — would he ask her out? Would he make an awkward pass? Would he spill his coffee on her “accidentally”? Moreover, I wondered, did she even notice him?

Her time in line was spent staring at the menu. She made no glances at any of the other patrons, and the only time her eyes shifted from the menu was to pull up the digital card on her phone. Caramel macchiato.

The man received his coffee, sipped it, and added his fixings. Was he taking time so he could spend more time seeing her? Was he purposely dragging out his order for this one woman who, arguably, was one of a hundred? Virginia is ripe with beach blondes, surely he could find another with ease. What made this one special?

Thus is the mind of the writer, perhaps. Perhaps these details were created fictitiously. Maybe I saw things that simply weren’t there; exaggerations, perhaps, to construct a readable experience.

As her order came up, he made his way back to her. Apparently while fixing his coffee, he had prepared a note on a piece of paper. This note was then casually slipped next to her drink as she went to pick it up, and as he passed the woman, he gave off a sly, satisfied smirk. To him, it was success. He left the building a new man.

She, however, crumpled the slip into a ball and tossed it in the trash can. Where he had seen victory, she had seen laziness. Cowardice, perhaps, could he not simply speak to her? Was he so disillusioned with his own pride that he thought hooking this woman would be so easy as slipping her a note?

Impossible.

Hostile Conversation

Names have been changed to protect the identities of described persons.

Starbucks is, admittedly, a poor place to rekindle any romance. I love it as much as the next caffeine deprived person, but it isn’t the ideal place to re-ignite the flame that a 30-year marriage can apparently put out.

But here they are. Tim, sitting barrel chested with a silver crew cut, and Betty, a Martha Stewart-esque portrayal of a woman in her fashion but not her build — they sit awkwardly opposite one another at the same small table Mike and Jennifer sat at. They got here a few minutes after I did, ordered quickly and sat quietly. For the first ten minutes there was almost no conversation, the two of them just scrolled through their iPhones (she was up to date with an iPhone 5, he was falling behind with an older iPhone 3G). The two of them face the Subway across the street. He sits on the right side of the table, she on the left. Her phone beeps and she smiles, thus initiating the first of a few awkward conversations.

“What’s that?” he asks her.
“Nothing, just something a friend sent me.”
“Which friend? Natalie?”
“Nope, you don’t know…” she starts, seemingly distracted by her phone again, “…her.”

He nods his head and continues scrolling, and has yet to even take a sip from his drink. A venti-something-or-another, I assume it’s hot because it comes in a tall white cup as opposed to a clear one. Betty places her phone into her purse and grabs her…what is that, a caramel frappuccino? Let’s call it that. She sips her frappuccino and stares blankly towards the Ross across the road.

“I should go to Ross tomorrow — see if they have any luggage.”
“Why do you need luggage?” prods Tim.
“I told you, work is sending me to Indiana next month for a conference.”
He grunts, “I must have forgotten.”

Tim’s phone goes off. His ringtone, oddly, is Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin'”, which is loud enough to cause myself and the group of what appear to be Muslim men to stare directly at him. Come on, Tim, don’t you know Starbucks doubles as a library?

“Hey man,” he starts, “No, no, I’m just sitting here.”

The phrase “just sitting here” causes his wife to look at him and sigh before taking another sip of her drink (Tim has still yet to even touch his). I feel like Betty wants something more than her frappuccino, though, perhaps wine. Perhaps a large fishbowl of wine, maybe a margarita. She seems desperate for contact, but more than just simple conversation…like she wants to laugh. She hasn’t even noticed that Tim’s removed himself from his seat to walk over to their car and talk, pacing back and forth, throwing his hands in front of him like he’s talking to someone who is actually in front of him. He returns about five minutes later with a reddened face.

“What’s wrong?” his wife asks.
“Huh? Oh, nothing, we just have to get rid of a few people.”
“Like who?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t ask.”

Tim finally puts his phone away and, at long last, takes a sip of his drink. He looks at it, puzzled, and puts it back down. It’s the only time he’ll touch it all night, and he leaves it on the table when they leave.

“What’d you do today?” Tim asks his wife.
“I was off today.”
“I know, but what’d you do?”
“I had another man over and had my way with him.” she jokes, but Tim just stares at her blankly.
“And I fucked my secretary. What’d you actually do?”
“I talked to Marcia [their daughter] and I went grocery shopping, Tim, I know you wanted salami so I got some.”

Betty appeared to be joking, but now I see why Tim was so persistent in finding out who made her laugh earlier. Maybe there was some infidelity in their marriage, but on whose side? Did Tim actually fuck his secretary? Their banter went on for another ten minutes, talking about different work related things (Betty works for a pharmaceutical company, Tim works for an aviation company), before finally leaving.

Betty and I lock eye contact while she struts behind Tim, and I swear I saw the slyest smirk form on her face.

The Blind Date

Names have been changed to protect the identities of described persons.

It doesn’t seem to be going well, at least not starting out. Two military members — one in uniform, one returning from what appears to be PT — sitting approximately ten feet from me at a small circular table, one that is probably too small for a first date. The table pushes them together and forces interaction, something he is stumbling with.

Mike is balding. What little hair he has is shaved down to the skin, blurring the border between shine and scruff. Navy colored basketball shorts that are, in my opinion, a size too small. White tube socks rise up to the middle of his calves, and his feet proudly display a silver pair of New Balance running shoes. Sweat stains dot his armpits — what caused them, the PT or the date, is unknown. I don’t see his face because he’s facing the direction I am, towards the grocery store across the street.

Her name is Jennifer. She is dressed in uniform, presumably because she just got off her shift. Unlike Mike, she appears to be confident in both voice and stature — her posture is straight, unlike his slouching. Her size-umpteenth boots dwarf his running shoes, though that’s to be expected with military wear. Where Mike stumbles in speech, she becomes vocal…though not overbearing, like she knows he’s nervous and is attempting to prop him up. Her hair is dirty blonde, held up in a loose bun that — as the day went on — probably became looser by the hour. Jennifer’s eyes are a caramel brown, though her eyelids and surrounding areas aren’t as sweet. Her job has taken a toll on her.

She comes to him first, cautiously asking if the man in sweaty workout garb is in fact Mike. Mike stands and awkwardly leans in for a hug. He is met, unfortunately, with only a handshake. For a few minutes, they retreat inside to order drinks. She pays for her own; a venti-something-or-another. His drink is less masculine, a venti “Very Berry Hibiscus” drink. He must like it, as it doesn’t last longer than a few minutes…that, or he’s just very, very thirsty. She makes fun of him for his “girly drink”.

Conversation is slow at first, and neither party asks the other what their respective jobs are. I figure it’s because she just got off work, and he just got off from doing employer-mandated working out. Both of them are middle-aged, though, so there are questions about family. “Daughters? Sons?” she asks. Mike sighs, shakes his head, and offers a simply “No.”

His turn. He questions if she’s from Virginia, and she is not. As it turns out, she was born in northern California. “I have family near there!” exclaims Mike, in the most animated statement he gives all night. “Really?”, she starts, “Where at?”

“Bakersfield!”

I hang my head in disappointment, and Jennifer’s eyes widen. A sorrowful “Awesome!” slips from her mouth. California, Mike must not remember, is a large state — and Bakersfield, he must have forgotten, is not in northern California.

Their awkward conversation carries on for the next half hour, covering topics like hobbies (Mike’s a fan of kayaking) and fears (Jennifer’s afraid of goats, I shit you not). Mike never fully gains a grasp on carrying a conversation, and Jennifer finally asks why he seems so nervous. “I was married for a long time, you know,” he begins, “and it just didn’t work out. It’s been awhile since I’ve done this.”

Jennifer doesn’t ask why, and simply nods her head. “Been there,” she says as a smirk forms slowly, “but we’re here now. So let’s do this.”

After eavesdropping on this date for an hour, I hear Mike laugh — actually laugh — for the first time.