How to Meet Cute Boys by Deanna Kizis, Ed Brogna

(something that
     gives Kiki the heebie-jeebies), their forearms get hairy from all the extra testosterone in their system, and their teeth
     get soft. But clothes look
so good
on them. While she changed, Chandra crowed to the owner about some “fuckin’ hot” clothing designer they both knew. I wanted
     to find a way into the conversation, but before I could, she said, “Girl, I gotta split, but you can get a ride back with
     one of the girls here, mkay? I have a meeting at the Peacock.”
    She meant NBC.
    With a superfast wave of her arms that made her look like someone out of
The Matrix,
Chandra was dressed and storming toward the exit before I’d even picked up my purse. Halfway out the door, she shouted back,
     “Peace, dawg.”
    I was assured that one of the buyer’s assistants would drive me back to the restaurant so I could get my car. The girl in
     question didn’t even try to get a conversation going, obviously thinking I was just some groupie. I guess she didn’t see when
     Chandra programmed my number into her cell.
    I was transcribing the tape from my Chandra interview when the phone rang.
    “Hello?” I said.
    A voice said, “Hey, wanna go see Jon Brion on Friday?”
    “Who is this?”
    I knew who it was. But I was being passive aggressive because there really isn’t anything else to be after a week’s gone by
     and you haven’t heard from the guy you’d spend every minute of every day with if it were up to you.
    “It’s Max.”
    “Oh. Hey.” I said it like I’d been doing so much more than calling Kiki up every morning, noon, and night and saying things
     like, “Just in case you were wondering, day five, hour one hundred and twenty. No call.” (She’d say, “Repeat this to yourself
     five times: ‘I am an attractive woman who’s friends with celebrities and has much better things to do,’ and call me later.”)
    “Hey,” he said.
    “Hey,” I said, just to be disagreeable.
    He said, “Hey.”
    The pause started to stretch itself out. Then it made itself comfortable and took a seat.
Then
it started browsing through a magazine. I waited for him to fill the silence with an apology for not calling, or, perhaps,
     the requisite excuse about being really busy. But Max said nothing. For a moment I thought I could hear him typing something
     in the background.
Is this guy actually dicking around with his computer while he’s on the phone with me?
I thought, suddenly so irritated I wanted to chuck the phone at the wall. But then a little voice in my head whispered,
Don’t blow this. You’re not prepared to blow this
.
    “You know how I feel about Jon Brion …” I began, trying to shift my tone.
    “Oh …” The typing sounds stopped. “You like him?”
    “Well,
yeah
. How he plays piano? And the guitar? And the drums? All at once? His version of ‘99 Luftballons’? So good?”
(Why? Am I talking? Like this?)
    We arranged the particulars. What time he was getting out of work, what time I should get to his house. I tried to think of
     something charming to chat about and …
    “Listen, I gotta try to get out of here,” Max interrupted, just as I was beginning what I thought was an impressive riff about
     why Brion’s lo-fi rock is really the most po-mo thing an artist can do.
    “Oh! Me, too! Busy, busy!”
Painful
.
    The first thing Max said when he opened the door was, “I don’t think that jacket will look good on you, man. It came out really
     huge and only fits big dudes.”
    “Wha—?” I started to say. Max held up his index finger. Oh. He was on the phone. He waved me into the house and continued
     his conversation.
    “Yeah? You gonna check that party out? Nah. Think I’m gonna go to this show …”
    Max ignored me while I wandered around his bedroom, looking for someplace to sit where I’d seem like I belonged. The bed,
     which I noticed he made perfectly—no creases in his duvet, thank you very much—seemed too flirtatious, so I perched myself
     on the