Friday, July 22, 2022 - 1:21 AM
written at the computer in downtown after a long day of volunteer work in the tower
Each of my stories is very unique and while this isn't the strangest, this definitely is more cozy than usual
<I was sitting in the apartment of my best friend's husband with a glass of wine. I glanced at his computer desk in the corner of the room. I didn't know much about computers, to be clear, my experience with computers pretty much began and ended with drawing software, and I used a laptop. I suddenly became very confused. One monitor wasn't how monitors were meant to be. It was sideways!
He came back from the kitchen, and I started guiltily. I'd been looking at his photo album on the coffee table. I didn't look up. Whoops.
"That's me and Ange in Portugal; it's a gorgeous country, but there's a lot of pick pockets."
I adjusted my dress awkwardly balancing the album against my side, pretending that I hadn't been pretending to not be hiding it under a pillow. He crashed back into the armchair and, about to unlock his phone, looked at me sideways. "Something wrong?"
I looked at him and looked back at the book. My gram always hated anyone but her and me looking at our photo albums. After a moment of panicky fast-thinking silence, I said, "I didn't know you had a… Volvo-"
He looked at me for a few moments, a smile slowly coming into focus through the beard and long brown hair which was unusually untied. He chuckled, and unlocked his phone with a practiced gesture. "I can see now why Ange likes you," he said. The seconds rolled on for a moment, unweariedly comfortable for him, and rather agonizing for me. I fake-sipped my wine and looked sideways at his shoes, waiting for an explanation with a focus so sharp it hurt. My new dress not quite fitting made it even worse, to be honest. "You remind me of her sister," he said easily from over his phone screen.
"Really?" I said it so fast I almost choked.
"Really! Anyway," he adjusted himself on the pillows, "did Ange text you about dinner? P.F. Chang's is closed, so I'll cook something for us. Sorry about that."
I didn't know if his cooking was any good, to be honest, but secretly I was glad it wasn't P.F. Chang's. I pulled at the hem of my dress and clutched my wine.
Davis wasn't a bad guy at all, really. All through school kids had thought we were together even with us continually saying we were just friends, but I knew she was actually going steady with a very nice girl a grade up, ending peacefully only after about seven years. I happen to be straight, but there wasn't… anything. I think she toyed with the idea, being bi and having crushed on other softish boys in middle school, but… no, there never was anything. I think we both looked for it, taking the odd prospective glance in class, but no.
She never came out but to me, about five other kids we both knew, and of course to Davis here. She always said she would if she had to, but apparently Davis was all that, so maybe no need. I sized him up as a straight guy does a straight guy, as he typed an abnormally long text-message.
Nice arms. They were long and they weren't too stringy. His clothes… a little casual, but he'd known we weren't going to P.F. and this was his apartment. Clothes don't matter as much because you can change them. His hair was good, thick and well cared for--this garnered extra points from me, as my own good hair was hard-earned. Not all guys are willing to put in effort to look good, and this kind of hair took a while to look good: he cared long-term; probably not just for a quickie sort of marriage…
That beard though. I don't know beards. I'd never have one myself, not in a million, so I never really payed attention to them. The hairs looked kind of stringy. It was like… I looked away and tried not to think about the kind of hair that facial hair always had always reminded me of a little bit. But, there it was, that darn thought again. Every darn time I saw a beard. G-R-O-
"Sorry, did you say something?" He looked up at me pleasantly.
S***.
I felt my face turn from tomato to peach as the key unlocked in the door. I looked desperately to the door to see Angel. She was wearing what she always called her "Sunday Best" even though she rarely did anything of note on a Sunday anymore. Whispy fragments of angry ghosts. She tossed her clutch onto the armchair next to Davis and plopped dejectedly onto the couch and pointedly stared at Davis in some amount of frustration. "Damn," she gently exploded. You could have easily imagined that she'd drove all the way across town to P.F. Chang's expecting a meal of some sort at least, only to find that it was unexpectedly closed for the day. She slumped back into the very comfortable seats and groaned.
A faint noise came from Davis, and as I looked at him I saw him cover up a smile, and then he smoothly said, "I have some Lobster Fettuccini Alfredo cooking in the pressure cooker right now."
Her eyes met his, and that was it. I knew it was going to be okay.
***
The following evening after work, I found myself sitting on the dimly lit porch of Irene's, one bite missing from a ham and cheese sandwich, and a glass of coke plodding towards flatness akin to water. I was staring at a girl in a beautiful pink dress across the narrow busy night street, inaudible over the sound of the jazz band some ways down and barely visible before a multitude of fast gyrating lights and almost unnoticeable amongst the dancers, gamblers, and attractive couples that patroned the bright purple bar across the street. I saw her face, unsure, just exactly my age too, about thirty. Then I saw it glow into a smile, as her dancing partner found her in the crowd, and the jazz band played a perfect standard, and the couple spun, together, in perfect union, through the street, twisting through the cars, dancing, dancing, dancing forever, never to stop, never ever paying any mind to a now flat coke and soggy sandwich.
© Thor Smith, 2022