Every Saturday is the same these days. I get up around eight, walk the dog down Sunset to the Coffee Bean, tie him to the table, and go inside, not knowing what to order. It’s never the same thing. I haven’t found the right one yet. Even our temperate January is too cold for iced coffee, and there are too many memories associated with it. Espressos are too dark and bitter. I like my coffee light and sweet, like my men. Salted caramel is my drug of choice these days – and if you’re going to have an addiction, it’s one I’d recommend – but I had copious amounts of it over vanilla ice cream last night, on the couch, before bed, and Summer is coming.
I wait for my drink, which today is a double non-fat cappuccino in a glass – they’ll do that for you, put it in a glass, if you ask. It’s very nice. I look around. There are a few regulars, enjoying the comfort of knowing their drink and their regular place in the shop. Their devotion is enviable and unquestionable when you consider that, for some, the relished place is a hard oaken chair. But it’s “their” hard oaken chair, at least for a while. Occasionally, our eyes will meet and we will nod. It’s clear to them that I still haven’t found my drink, and nowadays, I’m drinking alone.
I look around the room, first for my ex and second for him, but not really him, as in someone else, but “the dream of someone else” like Meg Ryan said in You’ve Got Mail. Maybe even further removed than that: I wonder if there is even the dream of someone else inside me; if I have any dreams left, or if they’re best shaken off and replaced with pragmatism. I wonder if there will ever even be another him, and what the moments just before meeting him will be like. Will I even be paying attention enough to remember? I don’t remember most things. When does that cute little story that we’ll tell at parties actually happen? Being a writer, I’m writing the scene all the time, in my head, madly. Then I render my madness moot with the gentle reminder that even if he is there, and does meet me, I’m not ready to meet him – not even remotely.
Of course, I can still keep myself distracted with some flirting. Never hurt anybody.
Today, there is really only one other attractive man in the room. He’s strawberry and freckled with a bright blue track jacket that not-accidentally matches his bright blue eyes that are trying to determine if I’m really freeballing under my sweats.
I am.
He smiles. I smile and nod back, as if to say – half brazen and half embarrassed – “Yup, that’s my dick.”
“Good morning,” I say enough above a whisper for him to hear and quietly enough not to throw a spotlight on the cruising.
“Morning,” is his quiet retort, then back to my crotch, and away.
Here’s my scan: expressive eyes, welcoming smile, age-appropriate hair, strong hands, moderate abdomen, cute butt, nice calves, tidy feet if they’re visible or what shoes he’s chosen, and our names juxtaposed if I have that information. It’s a time-tested, rapid-fire analysis which runs through my head in just a few seconds, like a spy device sorting out a digital combination to unlock a vault of untold riches, or a tripped alarm and a blow to the head with a rifle butt. There’s really no way to tell.
Blue eyes has had a little too much facial filler and freezer for my taste. Counterfeiting is fine, but bad counterfeiting is a crime. It’s all about what you’re willing to ignore. I could ignore it if everything else were in order, but it’s not.
Blue eyes comes to the same conclusion about me, expressed with the closed-lipped smile of sympathetic singledom that says “tough break pal” more than “come sit at my table, or on my face.” Men can smell damage (and yes, women can too); again, it’s all in what you’re willing to ignore, and for how long.
Looking back on my relationship, I’ve learned if I’m walking around damaged and incomplete, and someone takes me on anyway, it’s probably a good sign that he’s damaged and incomplete too. It’s like that project car you find on bringatrailer.com that comes with another one just like it; the goal being to make one functional car from the two, because neither one is truly road-ready.
It doesn’t mean he might not like me, or love me, even. He probably does – I know my ex did – but no matter how good his intentions, he’s looking for spare parts, and once a car is complete, it’s hard to keep it off the road.
The barista calls blue eyes’ name, which is Brandon, or Brighton, or Boston, or Brian, which is just perfect: an indiscernible daytime drama name, amorphous and frankly too much like my own.
They put my tall, frothy cap on the counter and call my name. As I sweeten with Splenda, I turn to the side, hips thrust forward, abs taut and full, round chest pouring over my ribs. I shake the Splenda packets with a chack-chack-chack and empty the packets into my cappuccino, drawing any watching eyes downward to my sweats in my own personal porn flick –– but nobody’s watching. Even blue eyes is folded into his iPhone, irretrievable. Thank God. I really didn’t want to fuck him anyway, I just wanted to make him want me to.
The dog looks at me from outside. “You are pathetic,” he thinks, and then scratches himself. I can hear his thoughts. It’s one of my superpowers. He ignores me all the way back to the apartment, not even bothering to look at me apologetically as I pick his poop up off the sidewalk. I walk him home, passing a mailbox i know is full and wondering what I’ll do with this brief, yet interminable day… an uncomfortable space my shrink tells me is exactly where I need to be.
