Curse the Starbucks couch. Joshua Sowin had no idea what he was sitting into.
—
I’m on a sofa for two at Starbucks. For two, because I’m alone and there’s always a chance that a beautiful girl will suddenly sit next to me.
“Excuse me, I know there’s empty chairs all around, but I’d really like to sit next to you. Would you mind?”
I’ll laugh and say “No, no, the pleasure is all mine… wait, I meant yes… uhh how did you phrase your question?” or something similarly awkward, and she’ll sit down and smooth out her dress and take out East of Eden, which also happens to be her favorite book and 50 years later we’ll still be telling the story about how our love began on the loveseat at Starbucks.
But she never comes, so I sit alone reading A History of Love. Yes, it looks as sad as it sounds.
Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.
Some time passes and I look up to find a young man in front of me, nodding towards the other half of the couch.
“Sup man, this taken?” he asks.
I turn my head to the other side of the couch, as if to ask its permission. Then I glance back at my suitor, taking in his sidewards hat and sagging pants—he’s a rather different loveseat companion than I was hoping for, but beggars can’t be choosers—and reply as cheerfully as I can: “No, it’s all yours.”
He pumps his neck a couple times in gratitude, looking like a giant gangster chicken, and says, “Coo’.”
He sits down with a thud, takes out his phone and taps at a colorful game (Angry Birds? Candy Crush? Gangster Chicken?) as he sips his double Frappuccino. I put my feet up on the table in front of me and continue reading.
If I had a camera, I’d take a picture of you every day. That way I’d remember how you looked every single day of your life.
The door opens and eyes dart towards it. It’s an unspoken habit; next time you’re at a coffee shop and the door opens, take notice. At least half the customers look up from whatever they’re doing and stare for a couple seconds. Some are actually waiting on someone. Others are unconscious gawkers, lingering their eyes a little too long on the hem of the cute girl’s yellow sun dress. The rest of them are like me, wondering if the person walking in will change their life. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting many interesting people at coffee shops, but I’m still waiting to meet the girl I want to take a picture of every day.
The girl who opens the door is dressed to impress. Her outfit sparkles, her earrings dangle, and heads turn as her high heels announce every step. Slowly and deliberately she walks up to the thug-like creature beside me and stops in front of him. He must have heard her heels—everyone heard her heels—but he continues to play his game, completely ignoring her. He doesn’t even look up.
She makes an annoyed sigh and plops down in the chair across from him. She darts a nasty look at me, clearly frustrated at this seating arrangement. It seems that, unlike me, she actually wanted to sit next to Mr. Coo’.
Then I realize the reason he sat next to me: so he didn’t have to sit next to her. He had already set off my jerk-o-meter, but now the needle hit the next notch.
The girl, dressed up and pretty, seems like an odd match for the slouching, unkempt boy. She stares at him, but neither speaks. Meanwhile, the game of Gangster Chicken continues.
I’ve never been one for confrontation: I hate fighting. So over the years I’ve built an internal detection system for unstable situations, and it’s going off. My brain buzzes a warning, telling me to run, to do anything other than sit here next to these two people, but I’m comfortable so I ignore it and focus on my book again.
When she starts talking, I’m not listening. And he’s responding now, if you call grunts responding, but still hasn’t looked away from his phone.
How did this guy get any girl, much less a head turner?
Grunt finally starts speaking, so like the busybody I am I start listening.
“I just had a long day at work,” he says.
“That’s terrible!” she replies, “What happened? Are you okay? Can I help?”
There’s a lot of concern in her voice, more than there ought to be. It’s like instead of saying he had a long day, he mentioned that his hand was gnawed off by a blind baboon.
His face wrinkles at her concern. “It’s not a big deal,” Grunt says curtly, “I’m just tired. Can’t I be tired without you bein’ all batshit on me?”
She opens her mouth but then shuts it. They’re back to silence. He plays with his phone and sips his coffee. She stares at him. I’m reading my book again.
Wittgenstein once wrote that when the eye sees something beautiful, the hand wants to draw it. I wish I could draw you.
She starts speaking again.
“How did your court date go?”
“I dunno,” he says.
“How can you not know how your own court date went?”
“If I was there don’t you think I would have known how it went? God.” He makes a noise of disgust. “I moved the date because my asshole boss was gonna fire me if I went to court instead of work. I hate that prick. One day I’m gonna kill him.”
Aaaand he’s threatening to kill people. This girl sure knows how to pick ‘em. I make a mental note to avoid all eye contact with him, not that it will be hard since all he does is stare at his phone.
They return to silence and I’m reminded that relationships aren’t always what they’re cracked up to be.
She leans forward and says more quietly, “Listen. I’ve been thinkin’ about things, Mark. I know what I said hurt you.”
He doesn’t look up. “Great.”
“But I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she continues. “It was just…so weird. I’ve never had anyone fall asleep during sex before. I didn’t know what to do. So I told Shanelle. And I’m glad I did, because she said it was normal and happens to everybody sometimes. I needed that.”
“Yeah, good for you. I don’t care anymore.”
As you might guess, I am now 100% focused on this conversation. Nothing else matters. Armageddon wouldn’t upset my focus. I’m no longer even pretending to read, because I am sitting next to a guy who falls asleep while having sex.
I hope it’s not contagious.
She leans back in her chair, “It’s those cigarettes. When you quit cigarettes you became a real asshole. The month before that, you were really great. You were the best guy I’ve ever been with, but then you became this complete jerk.”
For the first time he looks away from his phone, but instead of looking at her, he slouches back further, turns his hat completely around to match his douche personality, and stares at the ceiling. “Yup, that happens,” he says.
“Why are you being a jerk now?”
Finally he looks at her.
“Because I don’t care about you, Stacy. At all.”
This silences her. She has to know this guy is a complete waste of life , yet she keeps trying to make things work. And in my own way, I understand. You get used to things. An uncertain future is frightening.
The conversation seems to have stopped, so I look down at my book and start reading again.
We met each other when we were young, before we knew enough about disappointment, and once we did we found we reminded each other of it.
My mind wanders off with that thought, and it takes a couple minutes to realize the girl has started talking again.
“You’re a really great guy, Mark, you really are. Just…a terrible boyfriend. But we can still be friends. I really want to be your friend.”
“Not gonna happen,” he says.
“Why?”
“Why? Because of everything. I mean, I don’t even really like you. And we don’t have things in common,” he says.
“What?”
“No common interests, Stacy. You know, where you like to do things together? Are you even listening? God, you’re so stupid sometimes.”
She doesn’t seem to hear his complete and utter disdain for her. I’m embarrassed for both of them, but it was consensual; they’re both choosing to be here, in public, having this conversation. Bizarre.
She sniffles, holding back tears. “So friends need to have common interests, is that what you think, Mark?”
“Yeah, I do,” he says. “What’s the point of being friends if you don’t like doing stuff together?”
“So you’re saying you don’t want to see me—”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well then what?”
“I mean, I’m gonna keep your number in case I change my mind. It’s not like I never want to see you. You could come over every now and then. You know I like that ass.”
“You’re such a douche, Mark.”
He laughs.
“I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”
“Because I don’t care, Stacy. I don’t care about you and I don’t care about us. We’re done.”
Now she shrieks. “You can’t break up with me! I already broke up with you!”
“Whatever.” He’s back tapping on his phone. She settles herself down and then says, “I need to go home. Walk me to my car.”
“Why?” he says.
“Because maybe I’ll give you something.”
“Fine.”
They get up and she grabs his arm. As they walk out together, I think that, perhaps…being alone isn’t really so bad.
—modified photo nao.k /Flickr Creative Commons
Damn, just when I was starting to convince myself that the PUA’s are full of crap, Starbucks Girl has to go and prove me wrong.
Seriously well-written.
So glad I’m not the only nosy.. I mean interested in humanity, Starbucks/coffee shop customer. This story made me laugh out loud – and not sure how you managed not to 🙂
Nice storytelling! And there’s nothing like a little Starbucks dysfunction to whip you back into reality. 🙂
Joshua, you certainly know how to craft a well written story. I was totally captivated the whole way through. Nice job. Talk about dysfunctional on both sides. It sounds like to me she broke up with him and this little meeting was set up to purposely put her down because of his possibly wounded pride. He cared. She hurt him by breaking up with him. Now he’s doing some “payback” thing. Why else would he have met her in the first place? Could have just ignored her. She let him get away with some real stupid crap. I am totally… Read more »
Ha!
Great story. Thanks for sharing 😀