“I’ve inhaled more rum fumes than any one person should be able to handle. People love going to tiki bars for first dates. I think it’s because they can focus on the overly ridiculous cocktail preparation instead of the mortifying awkwardness of trying to keep a conversation going for two hours. But I get the worst secondhand cringe from having to bear witness to the entire ordeal.”
“I drove for Uber before I got this job,” he says. “And the worst is when they’re doing their goodbyes next to my car, and neither of them is sure if there’s going to be a kiss, so they’re both stalling, waiting for some kind of signal.”
“Or when the other person goes for the kiss,” I say. “And it’s too awkward to dodge it, so you just kind of deal with it for twenty seconds before you can politely run away and block them.”
“One time, I’m picking up this woman at an Olive Garden. They’re doing the good night thing. I’m waiting. Will they, won’t they. The guy kind of moves in, and she leans a little bit forward and gives him this giant raspberry on the cheek and then just jogs to my car. I asked her about it, and she told me that when she doesn’t want to give the guy a kiss, she goes in for a raspberry because it disorients them. They don’t process what happened in time to turn their heads to go for an actual kiss. And then she does this little jog away with a wave. She called it the Manic Pixie Dream Exit.”
I make a mental note to share that anecdote with Romily for inclusion in her next PowerPoint.
I can tell Nick’s trying to concentrate on filling in thenumbers on his forms, so I entertain myself by humming along to the Chili’s sanctioned music that’s still playing from the sound system overhead.
“I can turn that off,” he says, reaching under the bar for something.
“No, no. Leave it.” I casually bop back and forth on the stool in a way that looks cool and carefree in my head. In reality, I’m a tipsy moron who could slide off the vinyl seat at any moment. “I’m really feeling this Maroon 5 song.”
“Enjoying the corporate-mandated ‘spiced-up experience’ playlist?”
“It’s very spicy. A solid three and a half chili peppers. ‘Your su-gar. Yes please. Won’t you come—’ ”
Nick starts placing the bottles back on the shelves. “This is actually the playlist we use when we want people to pay their tabs and go home.”
“Should I take that as a hint?”
“No!” There’s real alarm in his voice. He takes things at face value in a way that keeps catching me off guard. “I mean, I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to leave a Chili’s at one in the morning.” Eye contact that feels toosomething,and I can’t believe what I’m contemplating, even as I’m contemplating it. “But I’m hoping you didn’t come here just to use the restroom.”
We’re still looking at each other across the bar; he’s waiting for me to reply, I’m waiting for that reply to come together in my head. Then again, some aspects of my life have been so boring and flat that maybe I’m subconsciously devising schemes. Inventing drama and intrigue where there’s none. Filling in the gaps between the panels with something more compelling than my boring-ass life.
“No, I definitely want to get a tour,” I say, clearing my throat. “I would like the full ‘spiced-up experience.’ You said something about a deep fryer?”
19
I manage to drip both quesoand honey-chipotle sauce on Nick’s hoodie.
He assures me it’ll come out.
“Kira uses her sleeves as napkins most of the time,” he says, and I remember that this man regularly loads a washing machine with little skirts and socks. “I’m used to it.”
While I’m finishing the last cheesecake dumpling, Nick is down on the floor, working on what has to be his final task of the night: reassembling the dishwasher pump.
“God, youarehandy,” I say, probably with my mouth full. “Do you just wander around whatever room you’re in, looking for issues to solve?”
“I wouldn’t have to wander very far in this building.” He’s hunched over an assortment of bolts and fasteners and wrenches. “I have a list of broken shit that keeps getting longer.”
I watch him put on a pair of gloves. It does something to me. Back in grad school I had an internship where I assisted an art conservator and every time I’d watch him put on gloves andoh so carefullydab at a fragment of varnish, my crush would grow a little stronger. It didn’t matter that his face was usually covered by a head-mounted magnifier. And maybe Nick is tending to a dishwasher and not a priceless work of art, but this is unadulterated competence porn—involving hands—and I am looking. Not respectfully.
I get a flash of the person Nick must have been in his twenties…dismantling all the stuff on stage that looks like it regularly electrocutes someone. He’s so fucking good atdoingthings. Do I just never interact with people who are so mechanically capable? In this confident way? Could Hal fix a dishwasher? No. Hal would simply move to a new apartment.
Now that I’ve finished scarfing down probably eight hundred calories worth of food, I hop up onto the counter behind Nick. And yes, I’m relieved and kind of proud that I make it up there in one attempt.
“Nope.” He shakes his head. “Off the counter. That’s a health code violation.” I like how he’s concentrating on his task but able to pay attention to me at the same time. “So…where were you tonight?”
And that innocuous question pulls me right back to an hour ago at the bar and all that stupid hope and disappointment building up in my chest, followed by feeling like a complete moron for expecting something different. I make a calculated decision not to mention Hal.
“How upset would you be if I said Applebee’s?”
“Devastated.” He turns the wrench sharply, making a little clanking sound. “I probably don’t know most of the places where young, single people hang out. You could make up a name and I’d have to nod and say, ‘Oh yeah. Great bar.’ ”
“I was at Treehouse. That’s what we—Icall it.” I catch myself allowing Hal into the conversation and shut the door on him. “There’s a tree trunk in the middle of the building.”
