The Sun Is Also a Star
Page 14Finally I can’t take it anymore. “Why are you staring at me?”
He blushes again, and now I’m staring. I can see how it might be fun to tease him just to get him to blush. I let my eyes wander the sharp planes of his face. He is classically handsome; debonair, even. Watching him stand there in his suit, I can picture him in a black-and-white Hollywood romantic comedy trading witty banter with his heroine. His eyes are clear brown and deep-set. Somehow I can tell he smiles a lot. His thick black hair is pulled back into a ponytail.
Observable Fact: The ponytail pushes him from handsome to kind of sexy.
“Now you’re staring,” he says to me. It’s my turn to blush.
I clear my throat. “Why are you wearing a suit?”
“I have an interview later. Wanna go get something to eat?”
“What for?” I ask.
“Yale. Alumni admission interview. I applied early decision.”
I shake my head. “No, I meant why do you want to get something to eat?”
“I’m hungry?” he says, as if he’s not sure exactly.
“Hmmm,” I say. “I’m not.”
“Why?” I ask, realizing that he’s not going to give up.
His shoulders shrug, but his eyes don’t. “Why not? Besides, I’m pretty sure you owe me your life since I just saved it.”
“Believe me,” I tell him, “you don’t want my life.”
WE WALK TWO LONG BLOCKS west toward Ninth Ave and pass no fewer than three coffee shops. Two of them are from the same national coffee chain (have you ever seen anyone actually dunk a donut?). I choose the non-chain, independent one because we mom-and-pop places gotta stick together.
The place is all mahogany and dark wood furniture and smells just like you’d think it would. It’s also just slightly over-the-top. And by slightly, I mean there are several oil paintings of single coffee beans hanging on the wall. Who knew coffee-bean portraiture was a thing? Who knew they could look so forlorn?
There’s barely anyone else here, and the three baristas behind the counter look pretty bored. I try to spice up their lives by ordering an overly elaborate drink involving half shots, milks of varying fat content, and caramel, as well as vanilla syrup.
They still look bored.
Natasha orders black coffee with no sugar. It’s hard not to read her personality into her coffee order. I almost say something, but then I realize she might think I’m making a race-related joke, which would be a very poor (on a scale from Poor to Extremely Poor—the full scale is Poor, Somewhat Poor, Moderately Poor, Very Poor, and Extremely Poor) way to start off this relationship.
She insists on paying, saying it’s the least she can do. My drink is $6.38 and I let her know that the cost of saving a life is at least two elaborate coffee drinks. She doesn’t even smile.
I choose a table in back as far away from the non-action as possible. As soon as we sit, she pulls out her phone to check the time. It’s still working, despite the cracks on the screen. She runs her thumb along them and sighs.
“Yes,” she says, and turns the phone off.
I wait for her to continue, but she’s definitely not going to. Her face dares me to ask her more, but I’ve reached my quota of daring things (1 = following cute girl, 2 = yelling at ex-boyfriend of cute girl, 3 = saving life of cute girl, 4 = asking out cute girl) for the day.
We sit in a not-at-all-comfortable silence for thirty-three seconds. I fall into that super-self-conscious state you get into when you’re with someone new and you really want them to like you.
I see all my movements through her eyes. Does this hand gesture make me seem like a jerk? Are my eyebrows crawling off my face? Is this a sexy half smile or do I look like I’m having a stroke?
I’m nervous, so I exaggerate all my movements. I BLOW on my coffee, SIP it, STIR it, playing the part of an actual human teenage boy having an actual beverage called coffee.
I blow too hard on my drink and a little foam flies up. I could not be any cooler. I would totally date me (not really). It’s hard to say, but she may have smiled ever so slightly at the foam flight.
“Still happy you saved my life?” she asks.
I take too big a sip and burn not only my tongue but a path all the way down my throat. Jesus Christ. Maybe this is a sign I should just give up. I am clearly not meant to impress this girl.
“Should I regret it?” I ask.
“Well, I’m not exactly being nice to you.”
“Would you?” she asks, frowning slightly.
“Of course not,” I say. What kind of jerk does she think I am?
She excuses herself to go to the bathroom. So that I don’t just sit there looking uninteresting when she gets back, I pull out my notebook to fiddle with my poem. I’m still writing when she gets back.
“Oh no,” she groans as she sits back down.
“What?” I ask.
She gestures to my notebook. “You’re not a poet, are you?”
Her eyes are smiling, but still, I close it quickly and slip it back into my jacket.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. What am I thinking with my déjà-vu-in-reverse nonsense? I’m just putting off the future. Like my parents want, I’ll marry a lovely Korean American girl. Unlike Charles, I don’t have anything against Korean girls. He says they’re not his type, but I don’t really get the concept of having a type. My type is girls. All of them. Why would I limit my dating pool?