(Continued from yesterday's post.)
The next day, as soon as Construction Cutie slouched into the chair across from me (we were down that like), he said, “So I’ve been thinking about this memoir thing. Aren’t you too young to write a memoir?”
“It doesn’t cover my whole life,” I said. “Just a section.”
“What time frame?”
“From the time I was 16 up until last year.”
“THAT long?” he asked. “You’ll have to stop living in order to finish it!”
“I write shorter pieces, too,” I said as the braggart in me awakened. “I had an article recently in the Star Tribune.”
“Oh yeah?” Construction Cutie asked, his spine suddenly erect with attention. “What about?”
“My love-hate relationship with the Minnesota weather.”
“Do you have it with you?”
“Not right now,” I lied. Though the article was on my hard drive, I wanted a reason for Construction Cutie to stop by my table again, so I said, “I have a copy at home.”
“Bring it in some time,” he said, standing. “I’d like to read it.”
Construction Cutie took one step toward the door, then whipped around.
“You must have the article in there,” he said, waving at my laptop with his hot coffee hand.
“Um…” I stammered, my cheeks flushing.
“I mean, you MUST. It would be stupid not to!”
I may have been a white-liar, but I wasn’t stupid, so I said, “Hmm…I guess I do.”
“So let’s see it.”
Construction Cutie sat back down and rubbed his palms together with anticipation. (Minnesotans get really excited about the weather.) I retrieved the file and turned the laptop around, unable to steady my shaking hands.
As Construction Cutie’s eyes worked their way down the screen, his smile faded.
“Wow,” he said. “I see why you don’t want people reading this.”
It was then I remembered that aside from the weather, my essay waxed reminiscent of my married days and the birth of my two daughters.
“Uh-oh,” I said. “I’m going to regret this. You’ll know more about me than you ever wanted to.”
“So you have kids?” he asked, returning the laptop to me.
“Yup.”
“Well!” Construction Cutie said, practically leaping from his chair. He raised his cold coffee hand toward me. “I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow!”
We didn’t see each other the next day. Or the next. The man whose path I’d been crossing daily was getting his caffeine fix somewhere else. A few weeks after the article incident, I pulled into the cafe's parking lot as Construction Cutie lumbered out to his pick-up.
I craned my neck to catch his glance over the Land Rover between us.
“Hey,” he said with his Hollywood grin. After the extended smile absence, I couldn’t help but gawk.
(Insert excruciatingly awkward pause here.)
Ask me out, ask me out, ask me out! I silently willed him.
Construction Cutie squinted through the sunshine. “Did you say something?” he asked.
“No,” I answered, hoisting my bag onto my shoulder with newfound urgency. “I, uh…was just…uh…LOOKING at you.”
(Was that my foot I just stuck in my mouth? Tastes like chicken.)
“Oh,” Construction Cutie said with a pained expression. He looked like I’d shot him with a stun gun.
Of course I couldn’t help but make things worse.
“You have such a gorgeous smile,” I added breathlessly.
Construction Cutie nodded with a furrowed brow.
“See ya,” he said.
Construction Cutie’s mood was like his coffee—-hot and cold. Though we continued to bump into one another on a regular basis, he never smiled at me that way--or sat down at my table--ever again.
***Afterword: Construction Cutie got married about a year after that last encounter. Had my single mommy status not sent him speeding in the other direction, who knows? Maybe I'd have been the bride. Here's a toast to the happy couple--and here's hoping Construction Cutie spills his hot coffee all over his crotch, thereby guaranteeing he'll never have to deal with rugrats. (Forgive me if I sound bitter as a Sumatra blend.)
HOT & COLD COFFEES
INGREDIENTS
1 hot girl
1 hot guy
METHOD
* Heat.
* Add sugar.
* Stir with stick.
* Cold shower.
