NIKKI & JOE, CASUALLY |

21: shockingly not a disaster (?)

            'So, what do you do?' Michael asks twenty minutes into our date.

Of course, I've just shoved a forkful of pasta into my mouth and my cheeks burn as I struggle to chew it quick enough to not cause a stall in our conversation. 'I'm an IT support technician.'

Michael says, 'I wouldn't've pegged you for a nerd,' in a way that might be distaste. He don't ask me if it's like IT Crowd.

He says nowt more. I suppose I'm meant to continue. I rack my brain for summat I can say about my work that's remotely interesting. I definitely shouldn't tell him I only picked a tech career for money because that'll make me come off as a materialistic prick.

'I work at the office for this vegan protein brand called NutriLents. We make protein powder from lentils so it's soy-free, and it don't taste like play dough either—I mean, I don't make the protein, I just fix the computers and handle the Excel-related stuff. And I work part-time as a bartender at Spectrum. You've probably been there.'

He shakes his head. Huh. It's one of the more popular queer clubs in the city but maybe he's not a clubbing person.

Michael glances down at my plate. I'm eating pasta with a green sauce made from spinach, chickpeas, lemon, and miso with toasted pine nuts. 'Are you vegan? Cause I don't know if I can date a vegan, I wanna eat real food.'

I clench my teeth before I manage to smile. I'm vegetarian though I've been slowly transitioning to more and more vegan food whenever possible. But I'd rather not linger on the topic long enough to explain that to him. 'I don't care what you eat.'

He makes a vague noise and cuts into his lamb. His plate is significantly fuller than mine, since I've been eating to avoid talking. Michael is gonna get scoliosis too...

Reference "How to Date" notes: Don't talk about brother for forty-five minutes. Don't talk about plants or permaculture or Aztec irrigation systems. Don't talk about parents or poverty or owt else that's too sad.

Work it is.

'It's a good job,' I say, pushing a fusilli around my plate. 'My best mate also works there part-time as a data analyst which is well nice. And the pay is sound. Though my boss still calls me DumbleWindows and laughs every time. It's been three years.

'The first year I were there–' I suppress a smile as I recount the story '–the company got everyone Christmas gifts, these bluetooth speakers that are waterproof and well handy, I use that thing every day. Anyway, mid-January, he found out I don't celebrate Christmas and he kept apologising for "assuming" I do. He felt so bad that he bought an apology gift for buying me a Christmas gift.

'Then the year after, he had everyone sit through a two-hour-long HR presentation about the importance of not assuming people celebrate Christmas. It's sweet and I get that his heart is in the right place but, like, I promise I'm not offended. I'd rather just do my job and not sit through this.'

Joe had thought it were dead hilarious but also adorable. Michael smiles, too, though not with his dimples.

'You don't celebrate Christmas?'

The question makes my gut twist just when I've started to relax. This isn't a rare occurrence, the shock—horror or disgust even—that some people spout when they find out I haven't been saved. I stare at the fusilli starting to tear around my fork from my abuse.

Mint. So that's another date I've managed to fuck up by saying too much about myself. 'I'm not religious.'

'At all?'

'No.'

I squirm. I hate the magnifying glass; I need to guide the conversation back to him. I don't need to tell him about being—"being"—Ticuna whilst knowing nothing about the culture because my parents decided to fuck off instead of teach it. Or about reading Gabo to feel Colombian but if that's what makes me Colombian then every literature student in history is also Colombian. I don't want to tell him about my parents.

'Are you religious?'

'I'm gay, so, no.' It's a blunt response, not one that invites discourse. 'My parents wish I were, though. Your parents aren't religious? I thought yous were Catholic in Colombia.'

I said I didn't want to talk about my parents.

'Yeah, a lot of people are.' I take a gulp of my water. 'But no, my parents aren't Catholic. We've got our spirituality that I suppose they practice. I've gone to church a few times with my best mate, but not like that.'

In an absolute unit of a dick move, I bullet the question at him before he can shoot me: 'How is your relationship with your parents?'

'It's fine.' What can only be pain pushes out the condescending undercurrent that he's been speaking to me with for the past ten minutes. 'I love them, obviously, but they get on my nerves a lot. They give me so much shit for not speaking any Burmese or Ruáingga but, like, who were supposed to teach me? Were I supposed to learn on my own? I'm pretty sure I couldn't even point to Myanmar on a map till I were nine, which is so embarrassing, but it's not my fault, is it?'

My anxiety dissolves into the comfort that comes with shared experiences, even when—especially when—they're bad ones. He'll understand. The rootlessness and the guilt that comes with that, the absurdity of parents who take a machete to the family tree and then blame you when you can't identify the leaves or the soil.

I'm not telling him about my parents though; I might as well shoot myself in the foot. Giving people some sob story is not the way you get a second date. "How to Date" Notes actually say it's the quickest way to end one. It'll show him how hollow I am before I even have the chance to try to cultivate summat in the barren soil of my body. Am I being dishonest? By pretending that I could ever love people the right way?

I've just I'm about to eat my last fusilli and offer to pay, Michael breaks the silence. 'D'you wanna head over to mine?'

'Um... I don't do sex after the first date.'

'Okay.' And the way he says it really do sound like it's okay. My grimace drops into pleasant surprise. 'We can play Mario Cart or summat.'

'That's alright by you?'

Clearly, my utter shock is right there in my voice because Michael bursts out laughing. 'What do ya think of me? I ain't that sleazy.'

            'Thanks for paying,' Michael says as we exit the restaurant.

I zip up my jacket, the cold already under my skin. 'It's my pleasure.'

The restaurant he picked is within walking distance of his apartment, and so, we shove against the wind, hands protected in our pockets. Though summer dragged it's feet, autumn slammed the door after it and we're right back to our regularly scheduled programming. Haven't seen the sun all week. It's like I told Joe: If you can see the hills, it's going to rain. If you can't see the hills, it's already raining.

'D'you want summat for dessert?' Tears pool in Michael's eyes from the dry air. 'I could get us some coffees. Is it too late for coffee for you?'

'I could go for a cappuccino.'

He guides us into a café at the next street corner. He must frequent it because the smile he shares with the barista is too affectionate for generic politeness. Michael orders two cappuccinos and she has already turned away when he adds, 'Oh, one of them with oat milk.'

The final thorn of anxiety eases out of my spine. I lean into his side in a non-verbal thank you. Michael offers me a smile, dimple deep in his left cheek.

Maybe Caleb has a point and I'm just shit at using dating apps. Maybe I'm the one who's quick to judge, happy to throw in the towel at the first hint of rejection. This might grow into summat good. It might even bloom, if I try hard enough.

Notes

Gabo: Affectionate nickname for the Colombian author Concordia García Márquez