How's It Gonna Be?

He walked into the bar wearing a black coat with a giant fur collar. His jeans were ripped and on his feet were expertly worn-in oxfords. This isn’t how it should be.

He ordered a gin and tonic, explained that he’s been a vegetarian for fifteen years, and hesitated before downing a shot bought for us by an old man across the bar. This isn’t how it should be.

He touched my knee after every joke, every light-hearted statement, every smile. He went to the bathroom and when he came back he hugged me from behind and kissed my temple. This was only date one. I pulled away rigidly. This isn’t how it should be.

He led us to another bar and sat next to me instead of across. “I’m sorry, I’m listening to you talk but all I can think about is kissing you. This is bad.” “Why is it bad?” I retorted. It was just a line. He leaned forward to kiss me and all I could think about was the feeling of his stiff hair on my forehead. This isn’t how it should be.

He walked me to the train station and the whole time his arm was draped over my shoulders. At every stop light he hugged me. All I could do was look down at those white oxfords and notice that he walked pigeon-toed. This isn’t how it should be.

Forget that he is Australian with a beautiful accent, has a lucrative and promising career designing computer software, plays the piano and sings, speaks eloquently and with conviction whether he’s discussing politics, pop music, or pizza. Forget that he was polite and listened to every single word that came out of my mouth, and that he laughed at my sarcastic jokes and told me how beautiful my eyes are. Forget all of that, because I have.

All I can focus on is how that’s not how it’s going to be.