That Guy At Pei Wei I Liked (But Never Knew)

 

             I wonder, as I hand him my Visa debit card, just what kind of lover he is.  Gentle, perhaps?  Does he hold them tenderly with, what I imagine to be, the softest hands this world has known?  Do his lips, so supple and moist, leave the tenderest traces of feeling over their bare flesh?  With such simple motions do all worry and care cease to be and find them to be replaced with an almost unbearable sense of calm and security?  When he enters them, does he do so with a slow-burning intensity, his eyes fixated on the person beneath him so that they know they are truly the only other person in this universe that has been born of their connection?  When they are both riding the highs of this passion and sweat has come to gleam on their flesh, so intimately connected in the most visceral of moments; when the apex of which culminates in an explosion of fire and ice, such contradictory and complementary sensations; when the lull has quieted their racing hearts and they come slowly down from such great heights, I wonder: does he hold them again, or does he leave?  Does he call?  Does he still even care?

            All this enters and leaves my mind in the span of seconds it takes for him to swipe my card through the reader and hold it expectantly for me to take back. My eyes meet his for a safe three seconds, during which I express my thanks and deposit the card safely into the confines of my wallet, which in I place into the satchel I have crossed over my chest.

            “You know,” he says while he gathers up the two bags that comprise my order, “every time I see your name print out for an order, I think, “wow, he just can’t get enough of us.’”  For a moment I think he has said, “can’t get enough of me” and my face, I can feel, burns something brilliant and I stumble for some sort of response.

            In my minds eye I can see myself laughing the careless laughter of some charismatic, suave gentleman of leisure.  Of course no such thing happens and instead I stand there, just looking at him with an expression I hope does not come across as if what he has said makes me appear to be ill or, even worse yet, melancholy. 

            “Yeah, well, um, you’re pretty close to my, ah, work.”  It comes out chopped and almost barely audible, to my ears at least, amidst the buzz and hum of a kitchen at lunch.  Behind him shouts are being made for orders; people at tables chat listlessly about things that, in my world are insignificant, but strike a chord of envy in my chest all the same.  Outside the sun is shining.

            My response must have been adequate, because the bags containing lunch are placed before me.  “Chopsticks or forks?”  The query is indication enough that our business here, because that is all this ever has been, is swiftly on its way to conclusion.  My contact with this man, who I have interacted with on the most basic of levels countless times before, is coming to an end. 

            I shake my head, add a quick “no thanks” and gather up the bags and paper cups, all emblazoned with the restaurants logo, into my eager hands.

            “Have a nice day,” he says to me before offering a polite smile before turning back to the growing line at another register. 

            I offer up a “you too”, though I imagine it has already been lost in the noise around us.  I walk away from all this to the soda fountains in the back where jars of red pepper sauce and spicy mustard sit neatly in the little cubby holes of the shelf along the wall.  I fill the two cups with iced tea, squeeze an orange slice into each one and deposit the squished carcass into the liquid.  Lid on.

            I place my ear buds back into place and Jarrod Gorbel has replaced Damien Rice.  I can’t place the song at just this moment because I have once again let my attention wander to the man behind the counter.  He is attractive, I finally deduce, though I had come to that conclusion a long time ago. 

            Moving past everyone again, I don’t even spare him a final glance.  Music streams into my ears, some song about infidelity.  My hips push the door open and I step out into the warming afternoon sunlit parking lot.  No, I muse to myself as my feet carry me back toward the office across the way, he is probably not gentle at all.