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I figured if women in movies can smile and flash their cleavage to get a man interested, taking off my clothes should get a man super interested, right? No. I was so very wrong about that.
Brody’s not like other men I’ve met. He seems to care. And I’m impatient.
Oh well.
I need to focus on Coffee Shop Guy. That’s who Amber was helping me attract before I went to the hospital. That’s who we’re going to see today.
I drum my fingers on the dashboard, matching the EDM blasting in my ear buds while Amber drives. She’s lost in her own thoughts. She’s always super-focused while driving and doesn’t like to talk until the car is parked.
I check my reflection in the visor. Damn, I’m cute. My hair is brushed and curled. Amber did my makeup like a slut—that’s how she described it—and stuffed me in a loose pink dress that doesn’t squeeze my injuries, which is good because I prefer not to think about them. While I’m living it up with Amber and Brody, I’m pretending the other part of my life doesn’t exist. I can pretend that now is my real life and always has been. Live in the moment, as the memes say.
The dress flows around me perfectly, showing just enough boobage. So far, I’m comfortable. The makeup isn’t itchy, I’m not frustrated with the cotton fabric or tags, and I’m tolerating the sandals. Emphasis on tolerating. I hate shoes. Hate, hate, hate, hate shoes. My feet need freedom. But I understand that walking into a coffee shop barefoot is not the way to seduce a man. It’s the way to get kicked out. And I have been kicked out of places for not wearing shoes.
We pull into the parking lot, so I cram my ear buds in a zipper pouch I found on the ground.
Amber turns off the sedan and faces me. “Anxiety level?”
I’ve been to this coffee shop several times, so I know what to expect.
“Smile?”
I flash my sweetest grin—not too many teeth, eyes soft and a little squinty to emphasize that I’m delighted. My head angles slightly to the side. I’ve practiced the look so much I’m damn near an expert.
“Stunning. Here. Take a mint.”
I pop the minty bead into my mouth.
“And you’re comfortable with the plan?”
I nod. Yup. I’m ready. No pressure. If Coffee Shop Guy is a bust, I’ll try again with another man. And again. And again. And again. If it takes until I’m seventy, even if my pussy falls off from trying, I’ll experience one damn orgasm before I die. I only need to find the right man with the right technique.
After a deep, calming breath, I step from the vehicle. As we approach the glass doors, the first thing I notice is the color of the shop. Did they paint it? The exterior looks darker. But that’s fine. Not a big deal. Keep going. Not a big deal. Same place. Same place. Same place. I’ve been here before. Same place.
Amber opens the door for me and a whoosh of cold roasted-coffee air hits my face. It smells how I remember. But the menu is different, the entire menu—different graphics, different sections. Drink lists are jumbled and rearranged. It’s now a chalkboard. It was never a chalkboard. Why would they make it a chalkboard and jump on the rustic-dive-bar-make-me-puke trend?
And there are a lot of people here today, all chatting at their tiny tables. Laptop keyboards are clacking. Ceramic mugs are clinking. Chips next to me are crunching as a heavy-set man inhales a handful, then coughs up a lung. I imagine a cluster of tiny chip germs floating toward me like an ominous cloud. I step back outside. It’s quieter here and the streets are familiar. No chip diseases. My heart is pounding, but I’m okay.
I’m okay. I’m okay. O-kay. Kay. Okay.
“Can I?” Amber says, hand hovering near my arm.
I nod and she links elbows, the side of her hip pushing against mine in a comforting pressure. Amber is the only person in my entire life who I’ve given permission to touch me without asking. She still asks a lot, and I love her more for it.
We stand there a moment and I exhale, unclenching my stomach. I focus on the warmth from Amber’s side to distract me from the light throbbing where my stitches are. This is okay. It’s all okay. I know the plan. I’ve been here before. Amber is ordering for me, so what does it matter if the menu is now an alien language? I don’t need to unscramble it. She’ll do that for me.
Once my pulse has returned to a normal rhythm, and I don’t feel that icky ‘everything is different’ squirming beneath my skin, I nod again and we step through the doors. Hopefully, the chip cloud has passed.
At the counter, under the glow of dangling vintage light bulbs, Amber releases my elbow, and I do my best to keep my face relaxed and welcoming. Coffee Shop Guy is warming a pretzel in the toaster oven while scanning a printout for the next order. A denim apron with leather straps is tied snuggly around his waist, thick brown dreadlocks in a bun at the base of his neck. As he sets the pretzel on a plate, he smiles to himself about something, and the various piercings on his face shift. He turns to the espresso machine and I get a pleasant view of his broad shoulders and backside.
“Hmm, let’s see,” Amber says to the woman behind the counter, surveying the menu. “We’ll take one Americano and one Pour Over.”
“Which coffee for the Pour Over?” the woman asks.
“Today’s special.”
Instead of letting my mind get overwhelmed by the surrounding noise, which it desperately wants to do, I activate tunnel vision on Coffee Shop Guy. As best I can. Some days, it’s harder than others. I really wish I knew his name, but employees don’t wear name tags and he’s never a cashier. For now, I’ll call him Rings since his nose, eyebrows, and ears are filled with them.
Rings grabs the printout of our order while Amber and I step to the pickup counter. He still hasn’t noticed us. It’s been several weeks, and we’ve only interacted twice, so I wonder if he’ll recognize me and Amber.
