We can keep it casual.
I only just met him.
This is fine…
Except it’s not.
I just spent the most amazing evening with a man I just met. I can’t help wondering if I imagined all of it. He selflessly gave up his coffee this morning, supported me in class, took me to dinner no matter how much I protested, bought me enchiladas so I have lunch today, and asked if he could see me at five-in-the-fucking-morning for coffee… all in a single day.
This has to be a dream. Guys like Isaac don’t exist. He’s the kind of man you make up when someone asks if you’re seeing someone new, but… he’s real. Or at least I think he is, and I’ll be saying goodbye to him after the holidays.
Fuck, this sucks.
I’m getting ahead of myself. It was one date.
Once I peel myself off the floor, I make my way to the kitchen to put the enchiladas in one of my microwavable glass containers before placing them in the fridge, then pull out my Murphy bed. As I rummage through my closet for my workout clothes, all I can locate is a pair of high-rise shorts and an oversized concert tee from high school I refuse to donate or throw away.
I should cancel tomorrow morning…
No. I can’t cancel. At least not on Heather.
I don’t consider myself a die-hard yogi. Heather runs a studio three blocks from my work that thankfully has showers we can use before we leave class. No matter how much I insist on paying full price, she refuses to charge me. At one point I stopped showing up for a week because I felt like a freeloader. She sent seven—seven—voicemails to check on me to ensure I wasn’t dead. Ever since, I don’t dare miss a session, but maybe I should text Isaac and Heather, lie that I’m not feeling well, and just sleep in.
How can twelve hours of knowing someone completely alter my brain chemistry like this?
Did he slip something into my drink?
Nope, this is so much worse… I like him.
A long, hot shower should help clear my head. I strip out of my clothes and toss them into the hamper, spotting a little coffee splatter on my shirt. With a groan, I pull it from the basket and march into the bathroom to find my stain remover. I coat the little light-brown splotch with the gooey cleanser and vigorously scrub at it. While I let it work its magic, I start the shower and wait a minute for it to warm up before stepping in.
It’s been a long day, and I sigh deeply as I wet my hair. Of course I walked around all day with a damn stain on my shirt. Who knows when it happened? I wince as I recall the coffee shop incident. Through class, work, more class, and my impromptu date with Isaac… Why did no one tell me? It’s just more proof that whatever this is, it’s a terrible idea.
I quickly wash and rinse my hair, then add conditioner and let it set, trying my hardest to forget about tonight’s date. Grabbing my razor and body wash, I make quick work shaving my legs and spend a little more time on my pits. The last thing I need is to be in downward dog or mountain pose tomorrow, showing off my prickly underarm hair. The water begins to cool, forcing me to rush, but I’m able to rinse off before it’s ice cold.
Once I’m dressed in my favorite pajamas, I slide on my slippers. Retrieving my textbook, the stained shirt from the bathroom, and the hamper, I make my way to the on-site laundry room. The one in my building is a bit more expensive than the laundromat I usually frequent, but I’m too tired to go down the street—plus I’m out of quarters, and they don't charge an extra fee to use my card.
After I’ve started my load, I take a seat in one of the four worn plastic chairs against the wall with my textbook and a highlighter. I pop the cap off, not the least bit excited to dive into annotating. I only make it through two chapters before I have torotate the laundry into a dryer, but I’m able to finish my notes on another two while my clothes are tumbling.
This ethics class is going to be the death of me. The subject matter isn’t the issue; I just hate how the majority of my grade is based on a single paper. Every professor grades differently, and I’ll have no way to prepare for what he expects. I’ve only managed to get two Bs since transferring; there’s no wiggle room if I want a real shot at a full-ride at Stanford. The only way to ensure this class goes smoothly is to focus.
I drag my laundry back to my apartment, and as soon as everything’s folded, I check my phone for any texts and emails I missed. There are only two, but they can wait until the morning, and I can’t help being a little disappointed I don't have a message from Isaac. What would it say anyway? “Can’t wait for tomorrow?”
Fuck, I’m pathetic. I’m obsessing over a guy I just met this morning.
After I lay out my clothes for tomorrow, I set my alarm for four. Isaac insisted I basically roll out of bed to meet him, but there’s no way in hell I’m doing it—I’ve embarrassed myself enough today. I turn out the lights and climb into bed, both nervous and excited about tomorrow.
It’s just coffee. Casual coffee.
Everything is fine.
11:32 p.m.—If I fall asleep right now, I’ll get about four and a half hours of sleep.
12:19 a.m.—I still might be able to get three and a half hours of shut-eye.
Why didn’t he kiss me goodnight? I’m still melting at the feel of his lips touching my neck. His beard was a little prickly, like he trimmed it recently, but in contrast, his lips were soft and warm.
I can’t help wondering what it would be like to actually kiss him. Would it be sweet and gentle or rough and commanding? Would it fog up his glasses?
