Am I a genius?
Did I just figure it out?
Do I need to come up with a way to drag Tek somewhere more temperate? Somewhere tropical? Or would fifteen degrees warmer be enough?
I mean, he warmed up to me in his parent's basement. Literally.
I thought, for a second, he really was going to reach out and touch me when I lifted my shirt. I couldfeelit. There was something in the way he kept looking at me.
I know I was drunk, we both were, though I've had enough drunken hook ups with 'straight' men to know when they're hiding something. But unlike all those other men, when I find that something, I can see it when I'm sober. And that'snotthe case with Tek. He's a brick wall. There's not even a slither of a crack where I can squeeze my way in.
He's vulnerable. I've found that, and now I see it like he's wearing a flashing neon sign around his neck everywhere he goes—but it doesn't say anything. It gives no clues.
He's still a mystery.
He's still untouchable.
Completely out of bounds.
I can't do this again.
What was I thinking about?
The cold.
This stupid fucking snow.
I have no appropriate clothing.
I really should buy some seeing as though I'm determined to see this winter out.
I've been wearing Eden's sweats at home, but that's where I draw the line. His taste is verylone wolf cosplaying as an angry lumberjack,where I'm much moresoft boy sea otter.I'm cute, and I like to be wet.
One block from Main I catch my reflection in the liquor store window. My hair is matted and my undercut needs shaving, but I don't look bad. I'd fuck me.
I wait for the lights to change then cross over to the cafe. There are three tables lined up on the wide sidewalk with heaters above them, but everyone is inside like all sane people should be.
I stop at the door, stamping any excess snow from my shoes.
When I open the door, the warmth greets me like a giant hug, and I breathe the rich coffee air. The place is like every other generic coffee shop the world over. Wooden chairs and tables, art on the walls, and the music playing is famous songs covered by unfamous people.
It gets the job done.
It's not the best coffee I've ever had, but it's far from the worst.
As I wiggle my toes back to life I look at the pastry cabinet. The muffins look good today.
I step up to the counter, and the same young, silver-haired, barista who's always here is behind it.
“What can I get you?”
I give her my order and add an apple walnut muffin. She taps it into the register then I take my muffin and collapse into an upholstered chair by the window where the heating vents blow warm air up my legs. I close my eyes and let my head fall back, but just as I start to feel truly comfortable, my order is ready.
The coffee is fine, but I never expected excellence.
Looking out onto Main Street I see that in the short time I've been inside the sun has broken through, though I'm not optimistic. If anything, that just means more melted snow and my shoes are already soaked.
Can you die from having cold wet feet for too long?
