You

You see him for the first time in Starbuck’s. The Starbuck’s on California Street, a couple of blocks down from Battery, right in the heart of the Financial District. It’s a two mile walk from your apartment on Larkin. You sit in a wooden Starbuck’s chair, at one of those little round Starbuck’s tables. You have the San Francisco Chronicle and your venti mocha with whip. You’re slowly savoring your classic coffee cake as you wipe sugary crumbs from your lap with an unbleached Starbuck’s napkin with its Starbuck’s logo and the recycle symbol. You look up from the article you’re reading about Gavin Newsom and his trouble with the homeless advocates when he walks in, not Gavin, although that certainly would have made your day, but even better: The One. The man you were meant to marry.

You recognize him immediately although you have never seen him before. But you know he’s The One. You glance at his ring finger. There is no ring. This is a new habit that you’ve acquired, by necessity. At this point in your life you’ve encountered enough married men to know to look for the ring right away, even though you also know that a lack of a ring doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Max comes to mind. The ugly memory of his wife, on the street at 2:00 a.m., throwing rocks at your apartment windows, cracking two of the panes, screaming at you to bring your home-wrecking whore-self down there where she could kick the shit out of you. Max struggling to get into his blue jeans, screaming out the window at his hysterical wife to go the fuck home. Oh, yeah, you know that lack of a ring means nothing.

You watch your future husband as he steps into line. The line is long, which is typical, and he’s positioned so you have full frontal view. He’s average height, with curly dark brown hair, cut short, the way you like men’s hair to be. He has dark eyes. He’s wearing a wheat-colored suede jacket. You want to touch it. You continue to stare at him over the top of your paper, hoping he doesn’t see you inventorying his vitals. His shoes are polished, looking clean and sturdy at the ends of his legs; his dark brown slacks sport extra sharp creases. You realize that you need to stop staring, but you don’t. You can’t.

He looks so sweet, and kind, he looks like the kind of guy who would bring you flowers, and tell you that you’re beautiful, even when you’re feeling fat and gross and pms-y. Then you notice that he has a scar on his lower lip. It’s on the right side, near the corner. It runs along the bottom part of his lip and disappears into his chin. You wonder what could possibly cause a scar like that. A fistfight? No. A cleat from someone’s soccer shoe? Oo, maybe a rugby scar? No, you can’t see him as a rugby player, you can’t imagine burly, muscular legs under the sharp crease in those slacks. Probably soccer; yeah, long lean muscles. You like soccer. You like his scar. It gives him a vulnerable look, and you feel even more strongly that he is a nice guy. You very much want to kiss that scar, to feel the smooth hardness of it with your tongue …

Then he notices you staring at him, and you’re not sure when he noticed you staring, you’re not even sure how long you’ve been staring, but you’re caught, busted, hand in the cookie jar and so you smile, and he smiles back, a small half-smile; you imagine it’s a shy smile, although it could be a blow-off smile, but you decide it’s a shy smile because it’s accompanied by a small nod, and because you want it to be a shy smile and not a blow-off smile. You go back to your paper, embarrassed. You look up again a few minutes later to see that he’s turned the corner in the line, and his back is to you. You can’t see his ass, because it’s covered by his jacket, but you’re pretty sure it’s perfect. You see that he is carrying a gym bag, slung over his shoulder, and a brief case. Staring at his back as he stands in line becomes dull, and you go back to reading The Chron. The next time you look up, he is gone.

You go back to Starbuck’s the next morning. You make sure you’re there at the same time as the day before. You don’t want to miss him. You get your venti mocha with whip and choose a blueberry scone. You sit in the same spot. You see him before he walks in the door, right on time. You try to get his attention so you can smile, but he doesn’t look at you. You see him walk away from the cashier and head toward the cream and sugar counter.

The next day you wait outside, down the street, in the opposite direction from where you saw him come the day before. You recognize him by his wheat-colored suede jacket. You still want to touch it. You time it so that you get into the coffee shop just after he does. He holds the door open for you and you smile and thank him. He just nods, and walks over to stand in line. You’re convinced he’s shy. You walk up behind him, but he doesn’t turn around. You hear him order a grande coffee, your turn is next and you order the same. You don’t get a pastry. You walk over and stand next to him so that you’re putting cream and sugars into your coffees at the same time. You hand him a long skinny wooden swizzle stick to stir with. He looks at you for a moment. You smile and say good morning. He takes the swizzle stick and thanks you, then walks out, stirring his coffee.

You leave right behind him, still wondering what his ass looks like under that jacket. A few blocks up he turns into a building. You stop and watch him enter. There are huge windows looking into a spacious lobby. There is a security desk. Other people are going in, all with id badges hanging from various pieces of clothing. 300 California Street. You watch him until he gets into the elevator and the doors close, taking him to an unknown office, where he will sit at a desk, a big solid desk made of wood, and he will work on something that is undoubtedly fascinating. You note that there is a café across the way, there are tables on the sidewalk.

You walk the two miles home, sipping your grande coffee with sugar and cream, thinking that it’s almost as tasty as a venti mocha. Once home you try on everything in your over-stuffed closet. You settle on a pair of striped slacks with your new Tommy Bahama strappy sandals and a black t-shirt with a low neck that shows off your cleavage, of which you are very proud because despite their size they’re perky, and because they’re real, not plastic. You put your large Strathmore sketch pad and drawing pencils and Staedtler eraser into a shoulder bag and you take your long black leather jacket, because it’s San Francisco; leather is mandatory.

Later that afternoon you make the two mile walk back downhill to the Financial District. You think maybe the strappy sandals weren’t a good idea on the San Francisco hills. You have blisters now. You buy a coffee from the café across the street, and settle into one of the chairs. You pull out your drawing supplies, and begin to sketch him from memory. You wonder what your children will look like. You’re working on getting his scar just right when you see him come out of the building. You pack up your supplies and follow him from across the street. You hang back as he turns left on Sansome, walking by not thirty feet from you. You follow him down Sansome and watch him go into a place called Club 1. It’s a climbing gym. You go home and research, because you know nothing about climbing. You love the idea of climbing and imagine going on climbing vacations together. You want him to belay you.

The next day you join Club 1. You make nice with the receptionist, Rebecca. She’s young and hip and fit. You want her to be your friend. You tell her you’re new at this. She teaches you the jargon. You go every day that week, until you’re comfortable with the place. You go to Starbuck’s every morning, and read your paper and drink your venti mocha. He is there every day. You always smile, sometimes you say hello to him. Sometimes he smiles back, that small half-smile that you insist to yourself is him being shy, sometimes he doesn’t. He never says hello. You imagine him mowing the lawn. You still wonder what his ass looks like.

One night you hang outside the gym and follow him home. He takes a cable car, you get on on the other side, but not where he can see you. You look forward to the day that you take the cable car together. He gets off at Van Ness, the end of the line. You follow him to his apartment at Pierce and California. He lives in the basement. You think this is romantic, a snuggly apartment in the basement. You walk back to Van Ness and take the cable car back to Larkin. Your Tommy Bahama strappy sandals are making your feet bleed. You take them off and walk up the hill barefoot.

The next day you get to the gym just before he does. You’re halfway up the wall when he walks in. It’s crowded and you’re lucky you saw him at all. You pretend not to notice him. He starts his climb, but not near you. You keep looking in his direction, but he’s focused on the climb. You rappel down the wall. Before you leave you stop to talk to Rebecca. You ask her about him. She tells you that his name is Tim, and yeah, he's hot. You think that Rebecca wants him. You think, who wouldn’t want him? But you know he’s yours. You hang around the desk, waiting for him to come out. You feel conspicuous, and Rebecca has work to do, so you leave.

On Saturday you walk by his apartment. Seven or eight times. You expand your morning walk so that you can pass by his apartment before you go for coffee. One day you go into his office building and tell the security desk you have an appointment with Tim. The guy behind the desk smiles at your cleavage, and asks you where he works. You don’t know, so you leave. That night you see him at the gym. You say hello. He just stares at you. It occurs to you that he’s tongue-tied.

You consult a psychic. She tells you that you have a curse on you. It’s an old curse against your family, and it will prevent you, specifically, from ever finding love. She can help you break the curse if you give her $450. You consider it. You consult another psychic who tells you that you will never be with him. You go online and find a numerology site. You try to put both your names in, to discover your numerological compatibility. You don’t know his last name, so you just use your first names. It says your potential is great, and that this could prove to be a lasting relationship.

You go to Borders and purchase a book on witchcraft. You find the love spells. They’re on pages 117 and 118. You choose one that requires rose petals and a stream of water. You buy a rose from Molly Stone’s and turn on the tub faucet. You repeat the incantation like the book told you to, while picturing the one you love. You tape the sketch you did of him to the tile over the tub while you do this. You watch as the rose petals run the length of the tub and then stick to the side. You wonder how long the spell will take to work.

A week later you see him in the hallway at the gym. You smile at him as you approach one another. He doesn’t smile back. You say, very cheerily, “Hi, Tim.” He stops. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. He is not smiling. His mouth opens again, you watch his scar, you feel excited, he’s going to speak to you!

“What is wrong with you? Why are you following me around? I don't even know you,” his voice is rising, “I hear you’re asking everyone about me. I don't even know you! You're freaking me out. Leave me alone!” A little bit of spit lands on his lower lip, that sweet lower lip with the scar that you’ve wanted for so long to kiss. You stare at it. Will he wipe it off? Or will it evaporate on it’s own? You’re shocked. You’ve just been being friendly. You’re just a nice woman, who sees a nice guy. You thought you two would get along.

“I’m just being friendly,” you say, the words sound stupid, but you say them anyway, figuring they'll come out right, “I thought you looked like a nice guy, that maybe we could have coffee together sometime …” You falter, and then stop, leaving out the part about getting married and having two children, Adam and Hannah, who will go to a private school near your four bedroom home in the ‘burbs, the one with the two car garage for the Beemer and the Land Rover, and the border collie, Jack, who will roll around on the perfectly manicured grass in the backyard with he and the children while you cook a gourmet dinner for the four of you.

His face is red, not a happy color, and through clenched teeth he says, “Stay. Away.”

He angrily adjusts his gym bag on his shoulder and walks off, his footsteps thumping muffled on the gray Berber carpet. You hear his hand smack the locker room door open, and then the soft air-whoosh as it closes after him, leaving you standing alone in the hallway of Club 1.

You head toward the exit. You have to consciously instruct your legs to do so. You’re almost out the front door when Rebecca calls you. You lift your arm in a half-hearted wave good-bye without turning around. You step into the fog-moist night. It’s cold and dark. You’re halfway home when you begin to cry. Loud sobs make their way out from inside. A couple holding hands stops to stare as you push past them. You hate them instantly. You make your way up the stairs to your apartment, your legs moving slowing, contemplating the difficulty of each step, not remembering the staircase ever being this long before. You finally make it to the top and insert your key into its lock. The door swings open. You realize you never got to see his ass. You heave forth another hiccupping sob as you close the door behind you.

Buttercreme

I ordered the wine with confidence, playing the big man, all bling-bling, epizootics of the blowhole dancing off my tongue, pirouetting, toe to heel, doing the Electric Slide right off my lips: tannins and appellations and malolactic fermentation, my ego swelling with the nodding of the waiter, “of course, sir,” my thoughts momentarily distracted from the fabulous cleavage being sported by my date; the cleavage that was escaping the silky suede dress whose color she called Buttercreme; the cleavage I was trying desperately not to stare at because this was our first date and I was aiming for gentlemanliness, and so I made sure to note the color of her eyes, liquid brown, and through it all I was grateful for my Ex, the sommelier, for the interminable boredom I endured as she droned on about varietals, soil conditions, acidity levels and residual sugars, her voice a reverberating hum in my ears, a hum that vibrated into the center of my brain creating space for the vocabulary that was now (hopefully) impressing my date, who was (hopefully) going to allow me to trek through that cleavage later this evening, and so I reached for my wine glass, red zinfandel glimmering luminous in the candlelight, intent on making a toast, something sweet, something simple, something easy, but I had, after all, fallen to staring at her breasts, and my hand, thinking that my mind had given it permission to fondle, moved too fast, the fingers, realizing too late that the wine glass was the intended target, instead bumped it, hard, causing the glass to tip, slowly at first, just enough time for me to understand what was about to happen, but not enough time to correct the mistake, as it crashed to the table, deep red liquid exploding outward and blooming deeply, instantly staining Buttercreme a sick shade of pink.

CB Radios: The Siren Song of the Blue Collar Man

So I’m sitting in this pub, minding my own business, my friend is texting her man-du-week and giggling stupidly. Really? I mean, we’re almost forty, when this guy comes in and sits down next to me. Hoping with the hope of the doomed that he won’t try to talk to me, I pull out my phone and pretend to be checking messages. I try to engage my friend in a face-to-face discussion, I root around in my bag, I crane my head around and pretend I’m watching the dart game, but then my neck is uncomfortable, and I think I probably look stupid twisted around in my bar stool. I sit straight again.

In this college town of perpetual students, professors and the plethora of
professionals that wander the streets I always attract the least desirable men. Yeah, I know: wah-wah-wah. I utilize my peripheral vision and take in the button-down shirt, the baggy jeans, the chain wallet, the skater shoes all residing loosely under this guy’s head of gray hair. I mentally roll my eyes. Winner, yeah?

It was inevitable: he spoke. I answered him politely. I stared into my beer. I
flipped my hair over my shoulder. Wait! I think, don’t do that. Isn’t that some flirting thing? Damn. He starts talking to me again. I eyeball him sideways, not willing to put in the effort of a full-on look. He twists slightly leaning toward me. I lean away an equal amount. Read that body language, Dude. He pulls on an earlobe, sips his beer, rubs a palm on his denim-covered thigh. His mouth opens, and more words come out.

I’m stuck, unless I want to be an out and out hag, and so I submit. I’m not happy. I try to look neutral, at least. The beer, the pub, the weather, you from around here? The conversation stutters on. He makes odd faces as he talks; he’s shy and this is hard for him. I soften just a touch, say something … I don’t know what … and he laughs. I ask what he does, resigned, gearing down on my ice queen act.

He tells me he’s a truck driver. Bingo. I turn my head and look straight at him, note that his eyes are blue-gray like my own. Suddenly Jerry Reed and his guitar are serenading me in my head, drowning out the frat boys in the back corner. He’s warning me about Smokey, how our time is short but the distance long. Burt Reynolds skids into my mind’s eye, that sexy black Trans-Am kicking up a cloud of dust …

“Do you use a CB?” I try to say it without sounding breathless - I can feel the cells in my body dancing, it’s big party. He says he does. I smile, make eye contact. I note his button-down isn’t blue, even if his collar is. How shallow am I? I flip my hair back again, what the hell, right?