“Have I offended you?”
His mouth twists. “How?”
“Because I didn’t fall to my knees at—” I look up at the storefront. “The Tickle Tea.” I smirk.
“Well,nowI’m offended,” he responds with faux offense. “Is there a problem with the name?”
“No, no,” I answer with a sarcastic undertone. “It’s…clever. Not cheesy at all.” Another sip. Choppy, hollow sounds rattle from my straw through my now-empty cup.
The string of text messages filled with vague, enigmatic questions and non-answer answers led to this. An afternoon coffee “date.” We decided not to call it a date, precluding all the official labels we’re both obviously avoiding, but thisfeelslike a date. Because a date would carry this kind of energy. This crackle that seems to zap between us whenever our eyes meet for longer than three seconds. Or when he holds the door open for me or pays for my drink. “Date” things. I bet Sylvia’s at home laughing an evil cackle as she watches her plans unfold.
“Do you come here often?” I didn’t mean for it to come off as a pickup line. It came out as a question of genuine curiosity, but he sets down his cup and bites his lip, the energy shifting between us.
“I used to. Not so much anymore now that I don’t need daily caffeine fixes.”
I gesture a finger at the energy drink concoction he ordered. “Late nights?”
“Grad school,” he explains vaguely.
“What did you study?”
“Computer science.”
“And you enjoy it? This…computer science?”
He shrugs. “It’s okay. Do you enjoy teaching?”
It’s purposeful and deliberate, the way he swings the attention back to me. Like he did when he sat at the edge of his seat, waiting for my nondescript three-point-five-star rating. It’s hard to give a raspberry chai latte a glowing five-star review. Half a point was taken off just for the creepily drawn teacup being tickled by what I assume is a tea leaf on the side of the cup. Another half point for…cloves? Ginger? No, definitely paprika.
“I do.”
“And you always wanted to be a teacher?”
I nod. “For most of my childhood. Though ballerina was thrown into the mix at some point.”
He points his hand to his chest. “Spider-Man. Or Batman. I wasn’t picky.”
“What made you settle for a future in computer science?”
“More practical,” he answers matter-of-factly. “And I wasn’t too sure about wearing my underwear over my pants.”
“There’s also the matter of finding a radioactive spider.”
“Or inheriting a manor with a loyal butler.”
My head tilts, and he mirrors the movement, like he finds something about me endearing or cute. He runs his hand through his hair, and a long wisp of it curls under his ear. He probably needs a haircut. Though I hope he waits a little longer to get one.
“Sylvia said you were looking for someone to show you around?”
“You two talk an awful lot about me.”
“She talks,” he clarifies. “I listen.”
“And when she talks, what does she say?”
He grunts a low, noncommittal hum. “That you like chai lattes, and that you moved here over the summer to take on a long-term subbing job. And that you needed a dentist, someone close?—”
“Jeez,” I interrupt. “Leave something to the imagination.”
