You (You #1)(25)

“You’re not predictable, Beck. You’re just on Facebook.”

“So you’re stalking me,” you say without a trace of sadness and you smack my leg, you like me, you do.

“Well, I wouldn’t call it stalking.” I smile. “It’s not like it’s private or anything.”

You laugh and smack me—again!—and you stand up and stretch your arms above your head. I see your belly button and I like looking up at you and we both know that you liked being looked at and you stretch this way and that way and slap your hands on your hips.

“Did you look at all my pictures?”

“Only a couple hundred, you know, just the ones from last weekend.”

You hang your head and wave your arms. “No. No. I don’t want to be predictable Facebook girl with her whole life out there.”

“That’s not your whole life.”

“It’s really not.”

“You save a lotta that shit for Twitter.”

You slap my knee and you like it and I like it and skaters pass by and a toddler screams about chocolate ice cream and a hippie plays a banjo and a gainfully employed cunt in heels is talking too loudly on her phone. All of it is for us and your voice lowers.

“I looked for you.”

“Yeah?”

“I was gonna look at your pictures, but you’re not on Facebook.”

“I used to be,” I lie. “But I burnt out on it. Some people, it’s like they care more about their status updates than their actual lives.”

“So true,” you say. “One of my best friends is like you, big time anti-Facebook.”

“I’m not real anti.”

“Well, you’re not on it.”

I know that you’re talking about Peach and now you think I’m like Peach and nobody likes this Peach so this is a bad thing. I panic. I get quiet. The toddler is silenced by chocolate ice cream and the wind is picking up and it’s getting darker, darker by the second, and the skateboards land hard and you want to look at your phone, I can feel you wanting to tell your friends, This guy I’m with just announced that he stalked me on Facebook. That is all.

“So, you wanna eat something or what?” I say. I stretch and remind you that I got biceps and I’m ready to kill anyone who’d dare to look at you.

“Or what?”

“I figured you’d wanna eat something. I don’t have an ‘or what’ lined up.”

“Do you ever notice how many words we waste?”

“Yeah,” I say and I almost mention you and Chana and Lynn’s bullshit talk about hate-watching New Girl but I catch myself.

“I want to be more careful with my words and only say what I mean. Cut the fat out.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I get that.”

“So yes. I want to eat something.”

I stand up and offer my hand even though you don’t need it and you take it. “You first,” I say and you know I want to watch your ass as you walk down the steps. “What are you in the mood for?”

“I’m flexible,” you say and you look back. “As long as it’s near my place because I have to be up early tomorrow.”

WE’VE had Corner Bistro burgers and fries and the vodka and the whiskey and I let you steer the conversation. You did tell me about Benji, “my druggie ex, I push him away but he always comes back. But let’s not talk about that.” I agreed (I’m agreeable!) and we moved on to your childhood (yours on Nantucket, mine in Bed-Stuy, your defensiveness about being a townie, my prepared knowledge of your island, which impresses you because I’ve never actually been there). You exclaim, “Joe, you’re so smart, you’d almost think you work in a bookstore!” You reference college often, “Ivy League bullshit” and “Yale guys.” Finally, you’re lit enough to ask me what you really want to know.

“When did you graduate?”

“I didn’t,” I say. “I didn’t even start.”

You nod. You are never around guys like me. I start to laugh. You start to laugh. I am never around girls like you and I start another round of who’s-read-more-books.

I win again and you are flabbergasted. “S-sorry,” you stutter. “I feel almost rude saying this, but, you didn’t go to college and you’re probably more well read than half the people in my workshop. It’s insane.”

I darken. “Don’t tell the kids at school.”

You smile and wink and we have a secret. I know how to talk to you and I fucking killed it, and the proof is that we’re the last ones here and you understand why I insisted we sit in the way back. We’ve got the room to ourselves. We’re at a four-top and the other tables are cleaned up and the chairs are stacked on the tables. You sit against the wall and I face you. You look to the left, to the right, and then at me. You ask me for permission to lie down on the bench but I have a better idea.

“You could do that,” I say. “Or I could just take you home.”

You slow blink on purpose and you sass, “And then what?”

“Whatever you want, Beck.”

You grin. “So, you’re a gentleman?”

I don’t answer that and you’re shy and drunk at the same time. The irony of your intentionally chalky eyes is that the more you drink, the more you rub your eyes and the more you rub your eyes, the less you look like a brunette Olsen twin and the more you look like you.