coffee shop romance

I gave in and said yes, I'd have coffee with him, because the last time he asked, the zit on my chin was at its reddest, orneriest peak and I'd already been vomited on twice that day. If he could see past that, well, maybe it was worth 45 minutes of further exploration. I pull the curtain behind me, pause, considering coffee. We've spent the past hour trying to irrigate the catheter of a demented old man with prostate cancer. He peels the gloves off his hands and throws them in the red bin by the sink without ever moving his eyes from my face. I feel the zit pulsing, projecting like a laser onto his forehead.

"C'mon. After what we've just gone through together, you're really going to say no? No matter what happens between us, there's no way that it will be more awkward than that back there."

How inaccurately he must see me - a girl who collects awkward moments like notches on bedpost.

His pager goes off. "Tomorrow? I already heard you say you're off. 4:00?"

It's impossible to find what you're looking for, or what you think you're looking for, sitting across a small unstable table, square or round, in a coffee shop. What kind of music do you like? Have you read anything by _________? People think this is the data you need to find and coffee shops play right into this type of shoddy research. How does he carry a shovel, what he does he do with the sweat on his brow? The tenderness with which he kisses his mother. This is the information I'm looking to gather. A first date in the middle of a field. Miles of fences to mend. Ask me once and I'll say yes in heartbeat.

When I called my mother earlier in the week, finally admitting that the last few months of dates with the architect had imploded into nothing, infertile ash, she went silent for a minute.

"What is it?"

"It's just...maybe you would have more success with men if you were less....," she can't finish the sentence. My mother teaches high school geometry. She is impeccably clean.

"Incongruent?"

"Well, that's one way of saying it, yes. "

"Ok. 4:00 tomorrow. I've got to go." I rush off into the room across the hall and start fiddling with the monitor even though it's not beeping and the patient isn't mine.

I get to the coffee shop early, trying to beat the rain and ending up my signature blend of windblown and sweaty. My bike falls over when I try to lock it while simultaneously looking over my shoulder to make sure he's not already sitting, expectantly, at a sidewalk table. He's not. There's a table in the back corner and I debate whether I should sit with my back to the wall or the door. I go with back to the wall and sit down, willing composure to rise up and beat back the incongruity I feel. All around me, people are typing intently into sleek machines, underlining passages, nodding in rapt agreement. It is too easy to be erudite and glib here. There is no room for awkwardness which is where I always find what I need to know.

I'm unabashedly watching the door when a girl about my age comes in, struggling to keep a 24 pack of toilet paper under the crook of her arm. She walks to the counter, dropping the toilet paper twice, and orders a large peppermint tea. She counts out the exact change, blocks the line of customers behind her while she waits, and yells "oh shit" when the light green water splashes over the lip of the cup onto her fingers. With great commotion, she gets herself, the 24 rolls of toilet paper, and a mug, half-full, of peppermint tea to the table next to me and sits down. I inspect her. Everything is a little off, a little over-ripe. Squidgy is the word we coined for girls like this in college.

A few minutes later a man walks in, and stalks through the minefield of tables. We never came up with the male equivalent for squidgy, but here he is. Without saying anything at all, he leans down and kisses the girl. He kisses her deeply. He kisses her faceoff. Then he stands up, stretches, reaching his arms high over his head, and yawns. When he's done stretching and yawning, he turns to the 24 pack of toilet paper on the chair next to the girl he's just kissed. He tears open the thick plastic, takes out a roll, and unwinds a long piece of toilet paper and blows his nose so thoroughly and loudly that everyone (unprotected by earbuds) turns to look. I, myself, stare, enraptured by the whole scene.

"Hey. Sorry I'm late." He's arrived and I hardly recognize him without his white coat and pager. The zit on my chin is gone and I'm feeling strangely hopeful about what can happen in this coffee shop, this afternoon.

He sits down in the chair that places his back to the door and cocks his head toward the couple.

"Wow. Did you see that. Kind of awkward. Hahahaha...," he laughs weakly and it trails off into my silence. Over his shoulder, I see the barista with the sparrow tattoo push play on the stereo and a song I love floods the air. I smile, betraying nothing, waiting for it to harden. He doesn't disappoint.

"Ahh! Great song!" He can not help himself as the seconds gather. "So...," he takes a sip, always looking at my face. "What kind of music do you like?"