Overflowing Nervous Energy

“Why so many questions?”

“I just need to know what I’m getting into.”

“You haven’t been on many dates, have you?”

“None, to be exact.” She sat back down, though her phone stayed in her pocket this time.

“That was rhetorical. It shows.”

“Have you?”

“Of course.” Of course not.

The closest I ever got to a date was when a coworker asked me to accompany her to a flower shop. She spent an hour and a half explaining the difference between a hibiscus and a standard rose, only to finish by saying they were a gift for her fiancée.

Now that I think about it, the setup was exactly the same as the flower distinction: 'a date' vs. 'accompany me to…'

“I await instructions, then.”

“I don’t know… movie?”

“I can watch movies at home.” 

“Walk in the park?”

“Too much sun during the day, mosquitoes. I don’t like how it looks at night.”

“You don’t have to dynamite every suggestion. You can just reject me.”

“That wasn’t the plan. I was only turning down the ones you gave.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Something that doesn’t require traveling or open space.”

“Are you saying…?”

“I’m not inviting you to my place, nor am I considering going to your apartment, so discard that immediately.”

“It didn’t even cross my mind.”

“Counteroffer: free ice cream. We just spend time here.”

Let’s pause for a second.Let’s analyze this, okay?
Hypothetically: you see someone in a cell. You have the keys. You offer to let them out of prison. They choose not to. You then offer them the mere possibility of wandering the yard at will—and in response they say the equivalent of 'let’s spend the day in the cell.'

An absurd proposal. Though I don’t know why I expected anything different.A proposal whose unequivocal answer should be a resounding 'no.'

“Sounds perfect. Any ice cream I want?” I asked.

“None with chocolate coating.”

“Are you kidding? Only the cheap ones?”

“It would be our first date. Aren’t we supposed to take it slow?”

“I think… I think you’re confusing a lot of things at once.” I stepped back to the customer side of the counter. “Wait—you said ‘first date’?”

“It would be our first date, objectively speaking.”

“So you’re leaving room for a second one.”

“No, I’m just not ruling it out.”

“Whatever…” I headed toward the freezer. “Any of the cheap ones?”

“Not now. I’m working.”

“Then…?”

“I close at 20:30, so you should be here at 20:25 for the date to start at 20:35.”

“Why that specific margin?”

“Aren’t guys supposed to wait for the girl?”

“In conventional movie dates, probably. But if we’re eating ice cream inside the store with the shutters down, it feels ridiculous.”

“Take it or leave it.” She picked up her phone again. Not that it’s important, but I have to mention that when she unlocked the screen, it made a meowing sound.

“No way I’m accepting something like that.” I simply walked out the door without another word.

Of course, the moment I crossed the street and climbed to my apartment, I rolled around on the futon like I’d won the Nobel Prize. Because obviously everyone knows that if the girl is pretty, it doesn’t matter if her level of weirdness makes you think she might harvest one or two of your organs the second you’re distracted.

By the way, that last part is in no way real. It’s called sarcasm, and I accept no responsibility for anyone who tries to date someone like that.

I took two showers in a row—one to calm my euphoria, the second just because I forgot to close the shower faucet.

I spent the afternoon imagining hundreds of fictional scenarios I knew would never happen, but they only made me want to fast-forward time.

Of course, in the middle of that I ate the bento the old lady from 4C left at my door.
Thanks, person whose age ranged between alive and dead, for saving me from starvation.

I changed shirts four times. None felt right for the occasion—even though I was ignoring the fact that the “occasion” was two people alone in a closed space.

Still, a band tee with lyrics and graphics about mutilation and dismemberment probably wasn’t sending the best message. Or maybe it was, but I didn’t want to leave anything to chance.
I even smoked in the bathroom to avoid future complaints about tobacco smell drifting across the street.

At 20:25 I was standing at the door like an Imperial Guard. She, meanwhile, was glued to her phone again.
At 20:30 she stood, walked to the side, and started lowering the shutter.By the way, a little grease on those rails wouldn’t hurt. That screech was awful.
At 20:35 her head poked out from under the half-lowered shutter.

“Did I make you wait too long?”

“You know it was only five minutes.”

“I know. But isn’t that the custom?”

“The custom?”

“The man waits in the middle of the sidewalk, in the rain, getting soaked even though he has an umbrella, and the girl arrives a bit late, drenched, and asks that question.”

“You do realize this doesn’t resemble that scene in your head in the slightest, right?”

This seriously couldn’t count as a date. More like showing up at closing time and the owner letting you in because she’s in a good mood.

I’d say being alone with her made up for the weirdness of the situation—but if I think about it, I’ve been alone with her every time I came to buy cigarettes.
Part of me wanted to punch myself because I could have avoided wasting three years just staring at her from afar (metaphorically speaking—though I did watch from the balcony, but that doesn’t count. IT DOESN’T COUNT.)

“So?”

“So what?”

“You didn’t hear what I said, did you?”

“Of course I did.”

“What did I say?”

“Uhm…”

She spun around once. “So? How do I look?”

“The same… as today?”

“It’s true what they say: men don’t notice subtle details.”

“There literally aren’t any changes.”

“Not all changes are exaggerated and unnecessary, like changing shirts four times in under fifteen minutes.”

“Hey! That…”

“Learn to close your curtains.” She grabbed two ice creams from the freezer. “Is lemon okay?”

“Actually…”

“Lemon it is.” She placed the ice cream in my hands. “Sit wherever you want. Oh, by the way—you need to work on your eyesight.” She pointed to where her name tag used to be.

No matter how much I looked around, the only chair in the entire store was hers, so I had no choice but to sit on the floor while peeling the wrapper off my completely ordinary lemon ice cream.

“You really want to do it now?”

“Excuse me?”

“I thought things would go slower, but apparently that’s not how it works. I probably should have asked.” She held the ice cream in her mouth, reached over the counter, rummaged around (knocking things over in the process), and pulled out a blanket, dropping it on the floor. “So let’s do it.”

“W-What are you talking about?”

“You were right. You know about dates, I don’t. The correct thing is to follow the one who knows.” She patted the blanket for me to lie down, then walked back to the counter. “I didn’t think it was right to do it so soon… I mean, we’ve only known each other for three years.”

“We’ve known each other for hours…”

“Theoretically.”

“No, nothing theoretical. This is… this is awkward…”

“Does it bother you that a woman takes the lead?”

“N-No, that’s not what I’m talking about!”

“Shh, lower your voice.” She turned the monitor toward me and tossed the keyboard my way. “If it bothers you that much, then you take the lead.”

“What am I supposed to do with this? What are you planning?”

“I thought you wanted to move fast.”

“That tells me nothing.”

“Watch movies? That’s basically jumping straight to third base, isn’t it?”