For most of the year, my muscles are sore all of the time. In the summer, it’s my ego that gets a bruising. I should be above all of this. Waiting tables is a means to an end, and I’m lucky that in San Francisco, it is a means to a surprisingly decent living. So—deep breath, inhale my good fortune, hold. Exhale the toxic Kennedy fumes. I am now open to receiving more blessings from The Universe.
And one of Milo’s CBD gummies.
It’s after two o’clock, so things are starting to slow down. After three more deep, grounding breaths, I realize that half of the front of house staff, including Milo, has gathered around the bar to stare out the window at a hot guy on the sidewalk out front. My burger isn’t ready yet, so I saunter over to the bar on my twinkle toes to join them.
“I already called dibs,” Milo informs me. My buddy Milo is a peculiar brand of gay hipster nerd, with his beard, bow ties, suspenders, tight vintage T-shirts, and burnt-orange leather shoes. We can’t tolerate each other’s taste in music, art, or fashion, but we have the exact same taste in men.
“Will you look at that jawline,” he mutters. “I would shave twice a day if I had a jaw like that.”
Hot Guy, as he’s being referred to, is in profile as he’s talking on his cell phone outside. Those tailored navy blue pants fit around his butt so perfectly. I could tap dance on his toned yet slightly rounded behind. I find myself sighing. My life has been a parade of super tight leotard-clad male dancer buns, but catching sight of a cute guy’s butt in the wild will always give me a dopamine hit. This was just what I needed.
“I’m glad he didn’t shave,” says Tara the hostess. “That guy’s stubble is the sexiest thing about him. That and his butt.”
I raise my hand for a low-key high five.
“He better come in here,” she continues. “It’s rude to stand in front of a restaurant like that and thennotcome in.”
“God, I bet he’s mean. I hope he comes in and insults me. I’d jizz in my pants and do a happy dance.” Milo is not kidding.
“Please tell me I can choreograph your jizz-pants happy dance.”
We both hold our hands up, fingers spread wide, and stage-whisper, “Jizz hands!” and then burst out laughing so hard the manager gives us the stink eye.
Worth it.
My day gets even better when I see Kennedy leave the restaurant with her father. She checks out Hot Guy as she passes him on the sidewalk. She pauses to look inside her Givenchy handbag, clearly waiting for him to notice her. He doesn’t. He turns away from her. He looks annoyed.
There’s so much to like about that fellow.
He slowly turns toward our window and notices the small crowd staring at him. We immediately start talking to each other animatedly, as if we’re having a staff meeting instead of objectifying an attractive stranger. Then we split up.
After serving the medium-rare burger to the suit at table twelve, I take a quick break to run to the staff restroom in the back.
By the time I’m washing my hands, I hear Milo right outside the door calling for me.
As soon as I open the door, he asks, “Do youknowthat guy?”
“What guy?”
He lowers his voice. “Jizz in My Pants guy! Tara said he asked to be seated in your section. Go talk to him immediately! I need to know if he’s mean and smells as good as he looks.”
Well, this is interesting.
I take my time sauntering over to the man’s table. I don’t think I know him. He looks to be several years older than me in age and at least a decade older in maturity level. His short wavy hair is the color of my favorite faded black T-shirt, his eyes are ocean blue, and the sum of all his features is nothing short of electrifying in the sunlight.
His eyes widen almost imperceptibly when he looks up at me, pupils dilated. He seems to catch his breath before a big, toothy smile spreads across his face, transforming it. I am nearly blinded by his beautiful white teeth. I could stare at his face all day, I think. His eyes quickly travel down to my feet and back up again. I am about as used to being given the once-over as a dancer can be, but on top of feeling a slight tremor in my lower belly, I feel…self-conscious? Is this what being self-conscious feels like? I thought I had that trained out of me.
I am simultaneously hyperaware of his gaze while being mesmerized by this guy’s face.
And then he speaks…
“Hey, Tiny Dancer.”
I stare at him. At that smile that evolves into a familiar smug grin. That cocky, cocky grin.
“Johnny?” I speak his name—somewhere between a question, a statement, and a mild swear word—before my brain has completely registered that it’s him.
John Brandt.
