Super?

One Minute I Held The Key

       It was raining hard that Saturday, like it had all of the week before that. Birchwood City was experiencing what meteorologists jokingly dubbed a "mini monsoon," which was an apt description. Mostly everyone was smart and stayed inside sipping coffee and wrapping up with their Kindles and blankets, but I was determined to make the most of it by spending it outside like the naive recent college graduate I was. I had just started working for a professional photography place. It was called SimplyYou or SimplySmile or something as equally as cheesy. I didn't mind taking photos of families and couples but those always felt so fake and staged. I loved candid shots, ones that showed personality and a raw sort of honesty. I wanted to capture the world for what it really was, not for what people wanted it to be.
       So I decide to take a stroll through Hoffmon Park in hopes that I will find something or someone to inspire some creative spark within me. Well, I get my wish.
It's in the shape of a bedraggled blonde guy swearing at his phone and kicking his parked car, which is a rusted piece of crap. The rain is soaking every inch of him, and he looks extremely miserable.
       "Hey. Um. Can I help you, sir?" I call, trotting up to him with my camera case banging against my stomach. He looks up in defeat, a thick strand of blonde hair dripping into his eyes.
       "I am completely lost," he groans. "I've been driving around for a few hours in this city trying to find my sister's address. My phone died a while ago as my GPS was rerouting for the fiftieth time and I don't have a car charger and I need to get gas and-" he stops himself and takes a deep breath. "I finally got out of my car because I was slowly going crazy and then it starts raining again. I've been standing here unwilling to get back in because I know that when I do I'll just keep driving around in circles for another good half hour before I finally work up the nerve to ask someone smarter than me for directions." He lets out another shaky breath. "Sorry. I'm totally being weird, aren't I? Ranting to some stranger, a poor guy who's just trying to be nice and help out. Let's try this again. Hi, I'm Oliver Jacob. But everyone calls me Ollie," he says, holding out a rain-pruned hand. I shake it nevertheless, staring in an amused kind of disbelief at this crazy guy who just happens to show up when I'm looking for a little bit of crazy. Maybe he's a gift from the universe, or maybe I'm just hallucinating, but I can't help but feel that maybe this is something a little more like fate.
       "Hi, I'm Dave," I reply after an embarrassing moment where I realize I've been staring at him like a child stares at a claw machine or something. "Dave Powell," I amend. His grin widens enormously, taking up his whole face like something out of a kid's crayon drawing.
       "You're in no way related to that really hot guy who also plotted to kill Abraham Lincoln, are you?" he asks. "I mean, there are a lot of Powells, but you never know."
       "Um. I don't believe so, no," I say, mystified by his openness- and especially the fact that he says "hot guy" so casually. Oh God. I have got to be hallucinating. He's like nobody I've ever met before, in the best way possible. And he might even be gay, too. Don't blow this, Dave. If you blow this, you are never allowed to step foot out of your apartment ever again.
       "Sorry, I'm a total geek," Ollie continues on. "I'm obsessed with a little bit of everything. But mostly superheroes. Oh. Wait. That sounds weird. I'm sorry. Sometimes I come on a little bit strong. That's what my Dad says, anyway. Plus when I get nervous I talk a lot, and I especially get nervous around- Oh. I'm saying this out loud, aren't I? God, I'm really sorry. Please say something so I'll stop talking and I won't make a fool out of myself any more than I already have. Maybe just help me out with directions if you would and then I promise I'll be out of your hair," he mutters. His face is redder than the tomatoes I plucked recently from the little mini-garden my friend Gabrielle forced me to plant. She's a little obsessed, too. But mostly just with being eco-friendly.
       "I don't mind," I find myself saying. "If you want, if you have some time later or if your sister gets on your nerves, I can show you a really neat hole-in-the-wall place to eat at in the city." Woah. I think my brain has definitely been disconnected from my mouth. Now who's coming off as a "little strong?" This is what happens when Dave tries to flirt. Caution: watch out for sudden word-barf falling from overhead.
        "I'd love that actually. Emma can be a little overbearing at times, bless her soul. It might be nice to have an escape," Ollie replies, much to my immense surprise. "Here's my number," he adds, pulling out a tiny little notepad from his front pocket, which I find dorky but adorable at the same time. He scribbles down his number with a pen that had been hooked in his button-down's pocket and then tears it off and hands it to me. I fold it up with a careful precision and stuff it deep into my jeans pocket so it doesn't get wet.
        "Do you have to tell so many people your number that you carry around a notepad just for that reason? You must be a really popular guy," I can't help but say, and then I immediately curse myself for making fun of him. But then he surprises me again by laughing.
       "Although that would be nice, the actual reason is a little bit more embarrassing, as much as I hate to admit it. I'm chronically and incredibly forgetful, so I have to write down little reminders for myself whenever somebody tells me something that's important, like a deadline. But yes, it also comes in handy for when I need to give my number to really cute guys." He pauses and then realizes what he just said. He swears a long, colorful string of curses that would make a mobster blush and buries his hands in his dripping wet hair. "God. I am such an idiot," he mutters, dragging his hands down his face. My heart is beating a little faster. Without even really realizing what I'm doing until I'm doing it, my hands are freeing the camera from its case and are raising the camera up to snap a picture of this wonderful stranger. When the camera flashes, he lifts his head and looks both puzzled and surprised. I'm standing there, holding my camera up, a look of terror and happiness and hope clashing on my face. A grin slowly spreads across his own.
       "Why'd you take a picture?" he wants to know. I don't know why, I think. Because then I'll know this wasn't a hallucination.
       "I'm looking for inspiration," is what I say instead, blushing up a storm while my heart threatens to push its way right out of my chest. His goofy smile looks like it holds the entirety of the sun.
       "Well, your 'inspiration' is running a little late," Ollie jokes, his voice apologetic. Oh. Duh. He needs directions, and I've been standing here (failing at) flirting like a complete idiot. "You don't mind, do you?" he asks, ducking his head.
       "No, no. Of course not," I say quickly, shaking my head so aggressively that my own wet hair slaps me in the face. "I offered to help you earlier, did I not?"
       "Honestly, I'm not entirely sure," Ollie confesses. "I was just saying whatever came to my mind. No filter and all that. Like I said, I was-"
       "Nervous?" I supply for him with a smile. "Me too. Don't worry. What's your sister's address?" He holds up a finger and opens the passenger door, retrieving a piece of paper from the dashboard. From what I can glimpse of the interior of the car before the slams the door shut, he's a very tidy guy. Unless it's a rental. (Which looks like a very sketchy rental, if you ask me.)
       "Here," he huffs, holding the paper out. I take it from his hands, leaning over it slightly so the rain doesn't warp the ink. It's a printout of an email from his sister with the address and a little note that says, P.S- don't get lost. Ollie grins sheepishly when he sees my smile.
       "Can I see that pen?" I ask him. He nods and after I take it from him, I quickly scrawl step by step instructions on how to get there. To say I'm familiar with the area is an understatement. I was born here and haven't ever even left the state. I know most of Birchwood City like the back of my own hand, but it still continues to surprise me.
       "Thanks so much. Dave, right?" I nod. "I'll definitely have to take you up on that offer," he says. I hand him the paper and he flashes me one of those megawatt smiles before ducking back into the rusty car. He waves through the rain-warped window and I wave back, and then he drives away.
       It takes a few moments of me standing and grinning to myself in the rain before I work up the nerve to look at the photo of Ollie I captured with my camera. I'm almost afraid it'll just be a picture of the grass and the sky, like I dreamt the whole thing. But when I go to my gallery, there he is. Standing before his crappy car, holding his hands to his face in embarrassment with rain dripping from every inch of his skin. This is candid. No, it's beyond candid. This isn't how the world is- it's how it should be. Full of crazy wonderful strangers who talk a mile a minute and aren't afraid to express themselves. People who smile like the sun and have laughs like hyenas.
       For the rest of that night, my phone stays on and I'm glued to it, watching the screen where I've sent a sent to Ollie that says: Have fun with your sister ;) After he doesn't reply for the next few hours, my brain starts to do what it does best: worry. Is the winky face too much? Would this dinner even be a date? Am I blowing things way out of proportion? Probably. But just when I'm losing all hope, he sends a text back.
Want me to come pick you up? :P
       I smirk at his next text that immediately follows.
Actually. No. Wait. Don't answer that. I'm not getting lost again X(
       I type a quick reply back before he starts texting out of nervousness.
It's fine. I can pick u up. What's ur sis address again?
       He texts it to me with an apologetic happy face and I grin ear-to-ear. Wow. I'm such a dork.
I'll be there in ten
       He just sends back a :D as a reply and I rush upstairs to change into something nice. I want something that says I-don't-know-if-this-is-a-date-but-I-would-like-it-to-be. Is that so hard to ask? I open my closet and gaze hopelessly at rows of graphic tees, jeans, cardigans, and flannels. Finally I settle on a blue button-down with pop-art motifs of bananas on them and a nice pair of jeans. I figure Ollie will appreciate the shirt. Or I think he will.
       Be chill, Dave. It's just a date-not-date with a really beautiful stranger who also happens to be amazing and also the same sexuality as you. You got this.
       So I take a deep breath, walk downstairs, step outside the door, and know that there's no turning back.