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Three
My time’s almost up but I don’t want it to end. If only I could stay up here all night. Or at least for another eighteen minutes, because that’s about all the solid material I have. I pace myself, leading into my closing punchline, which I always want to rush for the simple fact that it’s exciting. I hit my mark. Hard. A wave of laughter swells from the back of the room to the front and back again before crashing over me. Hot damn, that feels good.
The headlining Nick Leto is propped against the wall just offstage in the shadows. His pearly white teeth illume the darkness as he joins the audience in a jovial laugh. A thrilling jolt tickles my insides. I made him laugh. Genuinely.
Uh-oh. That’s usually how crushes begin.
Not that I’ve had one in forever. Some women develop the warm and fuzzies only after they know the other person’s into them. For me, those warm and fuzzies bloom when a man sincerely laughs at one of my jokes. I can’t help but get all starry-eyed after that.
“That’s my time, everyone. I’m Olivia Vincent. You’ve been great!” I gaze out over the crowd of grinning faces, capturing it in my mind as I do with all the best shows. The emcee retrieves the mic and I exit the stage toward Nick, who seems to be basking in the glow of a good laugh that I inspired. At least that’s how he looks to me.
I smooth my dark hair back, gently tugging on my ponytail as I approach him. “I got ’em all warmed up for ya.”
His eyebrow flicks, intrigued. “Now that’s the kinda foreplay I like.”
Oooh, did you hear that? It’s the sound of my heart thumping against my chest, rumbling all the old cobwebs away. I take in a breath. Nick’s Irish Spring scent with a hint of sweet, musky cologne enchants me further.
But you know your girl’s got to play it cool. So I snap back playfully, “ ’Cause you didn’t have to do any of the work?”
“That’s funny.” Nick’s lips curl up, his dimples like a double feature act while his eyes headline the show. “So what kind of last name is Vincent?” he asks.
“A good one.”
He chuckles. “No, I mean the origin.”
I’m pretty sure this is a much subtler way of asking my ethnicity. I’ve gotten Italian, Spanish, part Brazilian or some other South American heritage. The truth is I don’t really know. My mom’s side is some European blend, while my dad’s is a bit of a mystery wrapped up in his foster care childhood he wouldn’t say much about. I haven’t exactly gotten around to doing one of those DNA tests because I’ve never really been interested in the past. I’m all about the road ahead and who I’ll become. Plus, Vincent is a stage name—which is a story for another time. So instead of briefing him on all the details, I simply answer, “It’s Latin, I think. It means to win.”
“Are you a winner?”
“I think that’s pretty obvious.” I like to think I have a healthy sense of hubris, which Imani often tells me is an oxymoron. But it works for me. Even if I have to fake it sometimes.
With the emcee onstage cracking an extra joke or two (comics like to ham it up), Nick’s eyes remain fixed on me like I’m some kind of puzzle, wondering how the pieces fit. Or perhaps he’s wondering if our pieces would fit.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask.
“I’m trying to decide if your glasses are prescription or not.”
I touch the edge of the plastic tortoiseshell frames. “Why? You think I’m wearing them just to make myself look smarter?”
“Maybe.”
No joke, people do treat me differently when I wear my glasses. When I first moved to New York, I tried contacts for the first time. Neither my bosses nor my clients took me as seriously. So I went back to glasses and problem solved.
“They’re prescription.”
“Good.” His shoulders fall like he’s relieved. “I can’t stand those poser hipster glasses. Is nothing sacred to millennials?”
“No,” I say with a straight face. “I just bought a pair of couture crutches.”
He drops his head in a snicker. “So you gonna hang out after the show?”
Hang outis the term comics use to refer to joshing around and drinking into the late-night hours, which could be considered networking time. I would love to... hang out with Nick but I have to decline.
“Wish I could but I’ve got more gigs later tonight,” I say. Comedy comes first.
“Maybe I’ll see you around then,” he says, and I really want him to ask for my number, or follow me on social, or kiss me good night without a word. But he doesn’t.
“Sure. Thanks again for the opportunity tonight. It was awesome.”
