but the magic
was still present in
every
stroke
of
the pen.
And when
I think
about it,
she
must have
been there too.”
Extremely perplexed as to why he would pick this poem to read, I say that I thought it was interesting and would need to flip through the other poems at some point. I am just more of a fantasy or romance reader than a poetry person.
Coffee in hand and having set the book down, he puts on a 2010s cover of a classic 80s slow song, sensual and steady, backed by a saxophone and 4/4 timing, but with a crisper tone and more rhythm and percussion than the original. This cover is almost punchy, rather than being smooth jazz. I love this song and listen to it frequently! Feeling comfortable, I begin to dance around the kitchen.
After the song is over, he seemingly decides that he has had enough of other music and pulls a ukulele out ofhis bag. I didn’t know he played the ukulele. He asks if I’d like to go sit on my patio. We gaze out at the pastel rooftops, lining the way to the Atlantic shoreline. We can just barely see the crashing waves, and we are not making eye contact. I’m too nervous to look at him, and he’s giving off nervous energy as well. His hands are tracing circles on the iron balcony railing, and the tension in the air is palpable. He soon breaks the silence. “Do you know of a good place for shrimp and grits?” he asks. “I’ve always wanted to try them.”
I respond, “I don’t eat dairy, and I’ve heard most places use butter. But I could go for some shrimp.”
He responds, “Did you know that some mantis shrimp exhibit monogamous behavior? While they don’t mate for life like penguins, I have a lot of respect for them because of that.”
At this point, I look at him quizzically, and he immediately looks away and starts tuning his ukulele. He starts playing one of my favorite songs on his ukulele, one from an indie band originally from Portland, Oregon. He quietly sings along as well, which makes me start wishing he were truly serenading me and not just playing and singing in the presence of an old friend.
He puts his ukulele back in the case inside, and we decide to go take a stroll on the beach, but I feel the need to avoid touching him or making direct eye contact as he’s just a friend. He tells me how pretty my blonde hair looks in the sunlight and that I look radiant with the sun shining on my face. Then, “beautiful,” he remarks. But he’s an artist. These types of comments must be typical for him, I reason to myself. I assumethat I must be no different from a wild duck in a pond to him.
After this, we head to lunch, and he pays for both of our meals. He has the budget for this. No other reason, I rationalize. He told me he’s not actually a starving artist. I remember his “jk” in true internet fashion. The tension in the air is still palpable, and I believe I catch him glancing at me a time or two.
After lunch, I introduce him to my favorite bakery in town—fully vegan and gluten-free, yet you would never know it. When the bell dings, announcing that customers have entered, the older woman manning the register incorrectly states that we look like such a cute couple. “She’s dressed so beautifully for you. I hope you’ll pay for her sweets. How long have you been together?” she asks. We both start speaking at the same time, cutting each other off. “Oh, we’re not together,” I finally manage to say. The woman responds disbelievingly, with a simple “uh-huh.” We both get cream-filled, chocolate frosted donuts and pain au chocolate—he corrects me after I refer to them as “chocolate croissants.” Artists, man. They know way too much about pastries.
When we get back to my place from lunch, ready to play a round of a racing video game on the TV like we did in kindergarten, something almost completely unexpected happens. Amelia, my ex-girlfriend from many years ago, is standing at the front door. Oh no. “Amelia, what are you doing here? I thought you were married! Shouldn’t you be with your husband instead of awkwardly hovering at your ex-girlfriend’s door?”
“No, no. He hurt me, and I have nowhere else to go…so I was hoping I could stay here.”
“Can’t you stay with your mother, or literally anyone else? You surely must still have friends, or at least money for a bed in a hotel somewhere. Right?”
“No, I have nowhere else to go, and no money…please take me in. I’m separating from my husband and am going to divorce him again. He’s not a good man.”
“In the nicest way possible, Amelia, why does this concern me? Why are you here? What makes you think I’d take you back or even take you in? You left me for this man, and now you want to leave him for me? I’m not a revolving door. Please leave.”
“Please just let me stay here for the night. I promise I’ll leave in the morning, and you’ll never see me again come daybreak. Please just let me stay here for the night. Or maybe we could go take a stroll on the beach, walk into the water, chat…” she says. Amelia then notices the man standing beside me. “Wait, who are you? You were single last I checked through someone’s phone on Facebook, so why is a guy here, Phoebe?”
“You little manipulator. I do not want to take a stroll on the beach. You left me for a man, and now you’re leaving him and coming back to my front door. This is not happening. Please go!”
At this point, Stephan butts in, saying, “C’mon, she has nowhere else to go. Just let her stay the night. She can sleep on the couch.”
“And where would you sleep?”
