Yolk(41)

“This is going to sound psychotic,” he says, studying me again. “But you feel so familiar even though I barely know you.”

I untuck my hair from my ears so that it hides the side of my face closest to him. I feel exposed that he finds me unchanged even though he makes it sound like a good thing.

“I know what you mean,” I tell him, not knowing what he means at all.

At several points during the evening, I have to remind myself to listen and not just stare at his lips. In the booth across from us, there’s a revolving cast of characters, but I barely notice their comings and goings.

It occurs to me, too many drinks later, that I should have eaten dinner. I’m not good at drinking. I know I’m talking way too much and I’m desperate to pee.

“Okay then,” says Patrick. “Bathroom break. And you’re not talking too much.”

“Oh.” I laugh, rising to my feet. I hadn’t known I’d said it out loud.

We squeeze out of the booth. The floor underfoot feels spongy. And my left haunch tingles with pins and needles. I place my hand on his shoulder to steady myself. I know I’m closing my eyes longer than I should, but it feels exquisite. I’m exhausted.

“Whoa, okay,” he says, assessing me. “How are you doing?”

I focus on the central Patrick of the three in front of me, which pulse along to my heartbeat. “Seems wasted.” The sibilance of my words slide way longer than I’d intended them to.

He grins.

“Don’t make fun of me,” I plead.

“I would never,” he says, offering me his arm. “So, we’re going to deploy the buddy system on this, Baek Ji-young. We’re going to pee, optimally not together, and then we’re going to get you a coffee and possibly an entire loaf of bread and then pour you into a cab.”

“I haven’t eaten bread since eighth grade,” I tell him.

He escorts me away from our booth toward the bathrooms. This is nowhere close to the dazzling seduction I’d had in my mind when I first texted.

“And I’m not shy anymore, you know,” I blurt. “I’m… I’m gregarious and effervescent.”

He has the decency to keep a straight face, but I can detect the mirth bubbling just underneath. “No one’s accusing you of being shy…,” he says, regarding me seriously. “And you’re extremely fun and… fizzy.”

I swat his arm. I want to tell him that the greaseball fat kid he knew back then is dead. That I’m exciting now. Desirable. That admirable people have made all sorts of terrible decisions with me.

The line for the bathroom spills out of the red-lit hallway and wraps around the old-school jukebox. I lean on it, pushing the buttons that flip the CDs. I want piano music. Something keen and unsentimental. I want Ravel, but I’m also open to Jason Mraz.

I turn around and almost collide into him. Patrick’s eyes widen. His lips are inches from mine. It occurs to me how preposterous it is that our mouths had to travel this far over this many years without ever once touching. I press my mouth on his. After a moment, he pulls away.

“All right, killer,” he says affably. I can’t tell how mortified to be about the brush-off. It doesn’t matter. My light is on now. I’m sparkling above this moment, this room, this entire city. All I know is that whatever else happens tonight, Patrick will like me before it’s through.

I flip the pages of the CDs in the jukebox. When I see the Cruel Intentions soundtrack, my palms sweat. I turn back to Patrick.

I feel like I’m in a dream. My fingers caress his cheek. Possibly with more force than is required.

His hair’s curling in the back from the humidity. I reach out and touch it this time.

50 Cent comes on. There’s a wall of screaming to “In Da Club” at our left.

Just then the bathroom door opens somewhere behind him, a bright slice of yellow light. I cut the line, grab him by the wrist, and pull him into it with me. I need him to pay attention. To see me as I am now. The bathroom’s covered in a thousand stickers that are tagged over with a thousand different Sharpies and smells so overwhelmingly of pee that I feel like I can taste it.

“Hi,” he says. “This is a variant on the original plan of peeing separately, but it can be remedied.” Patrick grabs the door to leave.

“Stay for one second. I can’t hear you out there.”

“Oh,” he says. “We’re here to talk.”

It occurs to me that my makeup’s running down my face. There’s no wall mirror. Only one of those plastic handheld ones. This one’s black and chained to the faucet. The glass has been broken out of it.

“Wow. Metaphor much?” I ask.

He smiles indulgently. It really does smell so much like pee. I gag slightly.

Someone knocks at the door.

“Just a second!” I call out, laughing.

Right then the unmistakable trill of a Tinder match erupts from his pocket. His hand shoots to his phone.

“Oops!” I blurt jokily. “Guess the night’s looking up.” Even in my soused fog, I know this is not going smoothly. I’m trying to be a good sport, to be fun, carefree.

“Sorry,” he says, and looks at me with such compassion I want to hit him. I wish he’d made a joke. Suddenly I’m weepy. I don’t know what I’ll do if he leaves for his date.