“Is it a date?” he asked.
“It’s coffee,” I re-iterated. “And your call with Animation starts in two minutes.”
I left while he was in his virtual meeting.
Now as I walk to the place Steve suggested, I feel uneasy. I can’t ever remember it being this way before, a decade ago. Yes, I was younger, more optimistic but first dates were always humming with excitement. Nerves came from the tantalising hope that he’d kiss you at the end, not the hope they don’t.
I stop outside the coffee shop. It’s a Turkish patisserie. The cakes are lined up in the window, traditional honey-soaked baklava beside more Westernised staples like brownies and lemon meringue tarts. Steve is there before me, their phone in their hand. I’d sent them my arrival time after Effie left so they know I’m on my way. I’m glad to see they’ve chosen a table for two rather than a sofa where we would be side by side, thigh to thigh.
With one last fortifying intake of breath, I push through the doors. Steve stands as soon as they see me, asks for my order and goes to the counter to place it. By the time they get back, a steaming latte in one hand and a slice of revani, a semolina cake soaked in orange blossom syrup, in the other, I’m feeling more composed. We’re two friends, having coffee, seeing if we want to take things further.
From the relaxed way they chatted to the barista, I would guess they’re a regular. They put their own untouched cake in front of them and take a mouthful, encouraging me to do the same.
“That’s good.” I point to the cake with my fork. “Do you want a bite?” I say, because I feel I have to offer. But I’m relieved when they decline. Sharing food feels too intimate.
Steve opens the chat. “So, your daughter got off okay?” they ask.
And the conversation is easy. After all, I already know where they work and what they do. I even know where they live and how much they’re paid but we stay away from work talk. They ask as many questions about me as I do about them.
At one point, there’s a lull. I drop my eyes to the table and notice their tattoos. At work, Steve always wears a shirt, but weekend Steve is rocking a T-shirt, sleeves pushed up. After working in a game studio for years, the shapes look vaguely familiar.
“Are they significant?” I indicate the patterns on their wrists.
They pause for a minute. Then say, “When I was thirteen, I tried to take my own life. The tattoos hide the scars. This one is the dragon born symbol from Skyrim and this,” they rotate their right wrist, “is the Elden Ring. Those games quite literally saved my life.”
And in that moment, it’s crystal clear how wrong I am, how selfish I’m being. I want to cover their hands with mine, show them how touched I am they’ve shared this, but I resist. Now I know, there is no room for mixed messages.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “That must have been a very hard time. I hope things are better now.”
They look down at their coffee cup. “They are. I got help. Not everyone does.”
We move on to talk about games they love but as I can’t reciprocate, they switch to films and TV series. They really will make someone an excellent partner, considerate, and a great conversationalist. But as the designated end point for Mike’saccess rolls around, I know I have to address the elephant hiding under the table.
I make sure to look up and hold their eyes. I’ve never noticed before but there are tiny flecks of gold in their hazel irises. It’s unusual but attractive, really the epitome of Steve. “I’ve had a lovely afternoon,” I begin and I see hope flare. But I continue, “So thank you. I want you to know I think you are a truly wonderful person. But while I really value our friendship, that's all I want it to be.”
Steve sits for a moment. Their Adam’s apple bobs as they swallow. Then they nod. “I value our friendship too.” They manage a weak smile.
I leave the café and walk rapidly down the street, resolving I will never go on another date with anyone from work.
Siberia is Nice This Time of Year
When I get into the office on Monday morning, I can hear muffled voices coming from behind Anders’s door. I’m curious because he didn’t have anything booked in on Friday. I don’t have long to wait. Almost before my computer has finished its updates, the door opens and Steve comes out.
Except they don’t at all resemble their normal, self-assured self. Their eyes are wide and they’re looking paler than usual. And sweatier. There’s a slight tremble to their hands.
They pull the door to behind them and then stand there.
“Do you need a drink?” I ask, concerned. “I’ve got some water here.”
There’s a shake of their head, lick of hair flopping. “I’m … I’m being sent to Malaysia,” they stutter.
“Malaysia?” Are they sure? Perhaps they misheard. We don’t have anything at all in Asia. Why on earth would Steve be going to Malaysia?
“Malaysia,” they confirm.
“Do you need any help with flights?” I offer. “Accommodation? When do you go and how long for?”
“As soon as possible. And indefinite. Six months, maybe a year. Maybe longer.”
