1
My boyfriend Tristan is late again, and I am not surprised.
I am sitting at our favorite spot,
a table for two by the window, in our favorite coffee shop. Not many people
know about Café Carmelo—it is sandwiched between a Korean grocery and an
appliance service center, along a street fifteen minutes away from a major road
housing three universities and more than a dozen big-name coffee shops. People
drive past it every day, on the way to school or work, but nobody ever really
notices. And with its unassuming exterior and a sign you have to squint to
read, it almost seems like it doesn’t want to be noticed.
It was my idea
to make this our regular meeting place. I figured it would be less embarrassing
to be kept waiting for an hour and a half, or to be completely flaked on, when
your only witnesses are a couple of bored baristas and a law student burning a
hole through a mountain of handouts. Tristan used to say I was being paranoid, that
when he stood me up in Starbucks or Seattle’s Best, nobody could even tell I
had just been stood up. Of course they could tell. There is an unmistakable vibe
independent people give off, an enviable confidence that allows them to eat
alone and sit alone and hang out at a coffee shop alone without looking
pathetic. I am not an independent person. I do not give off that “I’m alone and
I’m okay” vibe. What I give off, clearly, is an “I got stood up by my boyfriend
so now I’m loitering and trying to pretend that I’m okay” vibe.
I open my bag and pull out the
envelope containing my resumés, cover letters, and 1x1 ID pictures. Today is my first
day— our first day—as official members
of the real world. I now understand why it is more common to say “fresh” graduates
rather than “new” or “recent” graduates. I feel invigorated and energized, free
from the burden of research papers and long exams and thesis proposals, and
ready to dive into the adult world of job-hunting and panel screenings and
salary negotiations. I feel eager and enthusiastic. I feel, well, fresh.
“Are we yuppies now?” my best
friend Diane asked me several days ago.
“Yup,” I replied. “Yuppies.”
“I hate that word,” she said. “It
makes me think of little people running around. Like boylets .”
I said, “It makes me think of
puppies.”
She shook her head at me.
“Sometimes I wonder why I put up with you, Mandy. I mean, you’re obviously so
much smarter than me. You have all these insights that are like, really deep , you know?”
I grinned. “Fine. Let’s call ourselves
something else then. Fresh. Fresh graduates.”
“Fresh,” she repeated, mulling it
over. “I like it.”
“Does it make you think of orange
juice?”
“No,” she replied. “Okay. Yes.
Yes, it does. But I still like it.”
We both laughed. “Fresh it is,
then.”
I arrange my cover letters in
alphabetical order, according to the companies’ names, and line up my ID pictures in
neat rows on the table. Forty minutes pass and I feel my freshness deflating.
My boyfriend Tristan is late. Again. I am always waiting for him to show up,
and even though we’ve been together for three years, I still feel sick to my
stomach every single time, like I am about to go on a blind date with a
complete stranger who may or may not decide at the last minute to back out.
You’d think I’d be able to brush off his punctuality problems by now. I imagine
this is what it would feel like on our wedding day, as I sit inside the bridal
car, a bundle of nerves, and wait for someone to tell me that the groom has
arrived and the ceremony is about to start—that nervous, clammy
uncertainty gnawing away at my high hopes until there is nothing left but fear
and distrust.
Except we’re never getting
married, because today, we are going to break up.
Tristan walks
through the door, no doubt with a good excuse for his tardiness: He came home
late from a graduation party with his block mates, or his mom
My boyfriend Tristan is late again, and I am not surprised.
I am sitting at our favorite spot,
a table for two by the window, in our favorite coffee shop. Not many people
know about Café Carmelo—it is sandwiched between a Korean grocery and an
appliance service center, along a street fifteen minutes away from a major road
housing three universities and more than a dozen big-name coffee shops. People
drive past it every day, on the way to school or work, but nobody ever really
notices. And with its unassuming exterior and a sign you have to squint to
read, it almost seems like it doesn’t want to be noticed.
It was my idea
to make this our regular meeting place. I figured it would be less embarrassing
to be kept waiting for an hour and a half, or to be completely flaked on, when
your only witnesses are a couple of bored baristas and a law student burning a
hole through a mountain of handouts. Tristan used to say I was being paranoid, that
when he stood me up in Starbucks or Seattle’s Best, nobody could even tell I
had just been stood up. Of course they could tell. There is an unmistakable vibe
independent people give off, an enviable confidence that allows them to eat
alone and sit alone and hang out at a coffee shop alone without looking
pathetic. I am not an independent person. I do not give off that “I’m alone and
I’m okay” vibe. What I give off, clearly, is an “I got stood up by my boyfriend
so now I’m loitering and trying to pretend that I’m okay” vibe.
I open my bag and pull out the
envelope containing my resumés, cover letters, and 1x1 ID pictures. Today is my first
day— our first day—as official members
of the real world. I now understand why it is more common to say “fresh” graduates
rather than “new” or “recent” graduates. I feel invigorated and energized, free
from the burden of research papers and long exams and thesis proposals, and
ready to dive into the adult world of job-hunting and panel screenings and
salary negotiations. I feel eager and enthusiastic. I feel, well, fresh.
“Are we yuppies now?” my best
friend Diane asked me several days ago.
“Yup,” I replied. “Yuppies.”
“I hate that word,” she said. “It
makes me think of little people running around. Like boylets .”
I said, “It makes me think of
puppies.”
She shook her head at me.
“Sometimes I wonder why I put up with you, Mandy. I mean, you’re obviously so
much smarter than me. You have all these insights that are like, really deep , you know?”
I grinned. “Fine. Let’s call ourselves
something else then. Fresh. Fresh graduates.”
“Fresh,” she repeated, mulling it
over. “I like it.”
“Does it make you think of orange
juice?”
“No,” she replied. “Okay. Yes.
Yes, it does. But I still like it.”
We both laughed. “Fresh it is,
then.”
I arrange my cover letters in
alphabetical order, according to the companies’ names, and line up my ID pictures in
neat rows on the table. Forty minutes pass and I feel my freshness deflating.
My boyfriend Tristan is late. Again. I am always waiting for him to show up,
and even though we’ve been together for three years, I still feel sick to my
stomach every single time, like I am about to go on a blind date with a
complete stranger who may or may not decide at the last minute to back out.
You’d think I’d be able to brush off his punctuality problems by now. I imagine
this is what it would feel like on our wedding day, as I sit inside the bridal
car, a bundle of nerves, and wait for someone to tell me that the groom has
arrived and the ceremony is about to start—that nervous, clammy
uncertainty gnawing away at my high hopes until there is nothing left but fear
and distrust.
Except we’re never getting
married, because today, we are going to break up.
Tristan walks
through the door, no doubt with a good excuse for his tardiness: He came home
late from a graduation party with his block mates, or his mom
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