Virtual Café: Transcript
If Walls Could Talk...
“You’ve changed.”
“Yes.”
“Both of us?”
“Yes.”
It was something about the eyes, the same eyes. I spent a moment or two searching for something familiar without speaking. She didn’t seem anxious.
Behind my own, some scenes played silently and that subconscious comparison rolled on, old image, new image.
My lips became suddenly dry.
She smiled a little as I sat there licking my chops. Hamming it up a little, as if before a fine meal, for comic effect.
“Wha-at?” she managed, and there was that giggle. That was it: that was what I had missed in the first few moments. For an instant she seemed like a little girl.
“Well, how do you like my internet café?” I offered. “Is it what you expected?”
She looked behind her toward the glass case where gelato was displayed. There were three cups on top: small, medium, large. Me, I preferred large ones.
“Is that Megan?” she said without turning back to me.
“Um-hum,” I murmured.
When she turned back toward me, it was her nose that caught my attention: same upturned Danish nose, as cute as it had ever been.
Nose may be my second favorite body part when giving a woman the cold male appraisal. You are not supposed to do that. It is better to be taken for a spiritualist, energy, vibes, the higher plain sort of thing.
It was different, of course, when you knew the woman. But if years pass, does that constitute knowing her, or not? OK: let her talk.
She had asked about men being irrationally attracted to a decent figure, nothing great, any decent figure, all done up in tight jeans, heels and a manner to match.
No, I had demurred: that is too cold. More than just testosterone and conquest, was a first reply, the sort of reply to give to any decent woman, a respectable and honorable one.
A few days later, on reflection, I realized the lie: it made laugh a little to speak with such self-righteousness.
Shit: sure it was all hormones and conquest, and nothing more. There is just no way to spin or sugar coat it.
“Well, this may come as a surprise,” I began. She knew I knew and she knew what I might say if I didn’t choke up with fear or burst out laughing.
I was terrified of women and had spent my life trying to cover that sorry fact with as much bravado as I could muster. The smart ones would shove aside the little boy act with a bald challenge.
I would forget myself, take a step or two beyond all the things my mother had warned me about growing up.
This woman across the table: it was like, oh, that physiology. Don’t worry, we can take care of that. And she had. It had cleared the way for others, much to my gratitude. Years ago.
I had thought about her a lot over all those years, and here she was, for better or worse. It was not that I had not changed, nor that I was any better for my changes. Just older: sometimes that was convenient; sometimes not.
“Too bad they don’t serve wine here,” I began, thinking to lay on the wine chat thing.
“I don’t know anything about wine,” would be her first response if I were to guess. It was what they all said.
“I don’t know much about wine, but I like rioja,” she shrugged off my prediction. Two points.
It was always a competition. Always.
Let us not sugar coat it: it was always a sexual competition, the flirting.
But wait, she hadn’t said more than a word or two. We weren’t there yet, just sitting quietly.
As she passed our table, Megan threw me a shy grin.
“Hi, Pete”.
“Staying out of trouble today?”
She had her tight black jeans and a tee on and I caught my friend’s appraising glance as Megan turned, putting the ceramic bowl of cheddar chili on the table across the room, and I smirked.
“She’s cute,” she conceded. I tried not to react as I saw Megan look back toward our table as she neared the cashier counter.
“Better in a tight skirt and heels, but not my type,” I countered quietly. I should have just shut up, knowing how competitive my friend was. I hadn’t meant to start a contest.
I lowered my voice and leaned in, sotto voce.
“What I like is above the waist,” and I thought she would slug me then and there. “The intellect, right? Class and sophistication…”
But maybe not that far.
Her skepticism was monumental, stony and if I said another word, I would never be able to wade back out.
“Let’s talk about wine,” she smirked, glancing sidelong.
“Oh.”
I hadn’t realized we had come there for some serious soul-searching discussion of the history of Virginia wines and the terroir available in this part of Virginia for good reds.
“Well, to begin, I have always preferred whites, but I am generally in the minority in that.”
The pose, posture, voice was my best professor shtick. Several colleagues tagged me on that. One had caused a snorting horse laugh when he referred to my face with its “power moustache”, the former tasting room manager who was having trouble sprouting anything.
I got a kick out of that.
My favorite recent unexpected remark was occasioned by posting a high school image on my Facebook page. Bordy, a schoolmate from years back, wrote something about my current “mane of wisdom”.
My wine talk works because people are expecting something like “Hey Dudes!”, and it gives them pause to hear some dead-on biochemistry and genetics delivered with an ounce of humor, and as much Groucho rolling of the eyes innuendo as appropriate.
“OK, the reds…” I conceded. “Special for you: not everyone gets the full treatment and look, at no charge…”
She was dubious. There was no need to try to impress this particular woman, but I knew how competitive she was and I had to put in a good show for pride’s sake.
After a few moments, when I reached the point in the presentation, the wine tasting part that begged two glasses of ruby wine on the table between us, I suddenly realized the shortcomings of talking wine in a coffee place.
She was mildly amused.
“Look, you didn’t come all this way to talk about Virginia cabernet franc and Norton, did you?”
She was riveted me with a glare of fearful magnitude, but I could only guess at what would come next…