might want to keep the sleeve,” he says with a grin. “It’s a collector’s item.”
I spin the cup in my hand to inspect the cardboard sleeve, and my mouth pops open when I see his name and phone number scrawled in black grease pen beside the check boxes for customized coffee orders.
Holy shit, I just pulled a number! My transition to frat boy must be nearly complete. “You should text me sometime,” he says, and he goes back to preparing drinks and tidying the bar before I have time to accept or reject his suggestion.
“Thanks,” I say with what I hope is a flirty smile. “I’ll see you around.”
#
By the time I get to work, I’m overheated with fantasies of what could happen between me and the tiny-sleeved barista if and when I text him. It occurs to me that even if I were to send a text, I wouldn’t know what to say. Why does the ball have to be in my court? Back when I was on the market, a guy asked a girl for her number, and then he’d have to hem and haw for agony-filled hours about whether to call and what to say. People didn’t just casually text strangers—they had to put themselves out there and risk being hopelessly awkward.
I’m in full-on panic mode when Nicole walks into my office with a troubled look on her face.
Yes! Nicole will know exactly what to type—she could even do it for me.
I’m about to ask her when I catch my mistake and halt—if I ask for her help, she’ll know I’m cheating on David. Or at least considering it. She’s a friend, but she’s also a legendary gossiper—it’s basically her job description. I could maybe pretend it’s research for an article on the technological intricacies of modern dating, but do I really want to go through with this and fuck a barista? It almost scares me that I’ve been so wrapped up in how to hook up with him that I haven’t stopped to think about whether I should.
Of course I shouldn’t. But given the very real possibility that I’ll never see or fuck Hunter again, I really, really want to.
Thankfully, Nicole has more pressing matters on her mind.
“So I have kind of a fucked up question for you,” she says.
“Okay. Shoot,” I say.
“How would you define a douchebag?” she says.
“What?” Nicole’s the most random person I know, but this one catches me off guard, and I can’t help laughing.
She slumps down into the chair in front of my desk and sighs like a second-rate extra on Saved by the Bell .
“I mean, what characteristics would you say apply to douchebags?” she says.
Her concern over such a silly question is endearing, but this kind of earnestness can only mean one thing.
“Oh my God. You’re dating a douche, aren’t you?” I say.
“Shut up,” she says.
“Does he put gel in his hair?”
“I’m serious, Faith.”
“Does he wear two different-colored tank tops, one over the other?”
“Stop it.”
“Or is it usually just sleeveless tees with basketball shorts?”
“I mean it.” She’s giggling now, but I’m ready to raise my hands in case she lashes out and decks me.
“When he goes indoors, does he take his sunglasses off his face and wear them on the back of his neck, or does he move them two inches up to his forehead?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Does he say Yo or Sup? when he answers his phone?”
Nicole pauses. “Okay, he might do that.”
“Does he have a chinstrap beard? And a special trimmer for it?”
“Enough. Really.”
“How much does he spend on supplements? And does his car have those neon lights under it that illuminate the pavement?”
She glares at me, but I can’t stop. This is too much fun.
“Describe the back pockets of the jeans he wears on dates. Do they have embroidered doves on them?”
“No!”
“ But .” I’m not letting that one go. Fifty bucks says there’s something ridiculous embroidered on his back pockets.
“But—” She hangs her head. “But they have shiny white crosses stitched on them.”
“Oh God.” I
I spin the cup in my hand to inspect the cardboard sleeve, and my mouth pops open when I see his name and phone number scrawled in black grease pen beside the check boxes for customized coffee orders.
Holy shit, I just pulled a number! My transition to frat boy must be nearly complete. “You should text me sometime,” he says, and he goes back to preparing drinks and tidying the bar before I have time to accept or reject his suggestion.
“Thanks,” I say with what I hope is a flirty smile. “I’ll see you around.”
#
By the time I get to work, I’m overheated with fantasies of what could happen between me and the tiny-sleeved barista if and when I text him. It occurs to me that even if I were to send a text, I wouldn’t know what to say. Why does the ball have to be in my court? Back when I was on the market, a guy asked a girl for her number, and then he’d have to hem and haw for agony-filled hours about whether to call and what to say. People didn’t just casually text strangers—they had to put themselves out there and risk being hopelessly awkward.
I’m in full-on panic mode when Nicole walks into my office with a troubled look on her face.
Yes! Nicole will know exactly what to type—she could even do it for me.
I’m about to ask her when I catch my mistake and halt—if I ask for her help, she’ll know I’m cheating on David. Or at least considering it. She’s a friend, but she’s also a legendary gossiper—it’s basically her job description. I could maybe pretend it’s research for an article on the technological intricacies of modern dating, but do I really want to go through with this and fuck a barista? It almost scares me that I’ve been so wrapped up in how to hook up with him that I haven’t stopped to think about whether I should.
Of course I shouldn’t. But given the very real possibility that I’ll never see or fuck Hunter again, I really, really want to.
Thankfully, Nicole has more pressing matters on her mind.
“So I have kind of a fucked up question for you,” she says.
“Okay. Shoot,” I say.
“How would you define a douchebag?” she says.
“What?” Nicole’s the most random person I know, but this one catches me off guard, and I can’t help laughing.
She slumps down into the chair in front of my desk and sighs like a second-rate extra on Saved by the Bell .
“I mean, what characteristics would you say apply to douchebags?” she says.
Her concern over such a silly question is endearing, but this kind of earnestness can only mean one thing.
“Oh my God. You’re dating a douche, aren’t you?” I say.
“Shut up,” she says.
“Does he put gel in his hair?”
“I’m serious, Faith.”
“Does he wear two different-colored tank tops, one over the other?”
“Stop it.”
“Or is it usually just sleeveless tees with basketball shorts?”
“I mean it.” She’s giggling now, but I’m ready to raise my hands in case she lashes out and decks me.
“When he goes indoors, does he take his sunglasses off his face and wear them on the back of his neck, or does he move them two inches up to his forehead?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Does he say Yo or Sup? when he answers his phone?”
Nicole pauses. “Okay, he might do that.”
“Does he have a chinstrap beard? And a special trimmer for it?”
“Enough. Really.”
“How much does he spend on supplements? And does his car have those neon lights under it that illuminate the pavement?”
She glares at me, but I can’t stop. This is too much fun.
“Describe the back pockets of the jeans he wears on dates. Do they have embroidered doves on them?”
“No!”
“ But .” I’m not letting that one go. Fifty bucks says there’s something ridiculous embroidered on his back pockets.
“But—” She hangs her head. “But they have shiny white crosses stitched on them.”
“Oh God.” I
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