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Description
Dust resonates from the plush purple chairs in the corner, where “artsy” people sit and drink lattes while they pretend to fiddle with their manual cameras. They sneer as girls with purses and badly died hair walk in, laughing. The “artists’” hair-jobs aren’t done all that well, and I resent them for being hypocritical. No, I resent them for being so flawed that they’re perfect.

“What are you staring at?”

Oh, right, I’m out with Adam: the confident one with the jeans that fit well and the hair that makes him irresistible.

“Oh, um…The chairs. They look comfortable.” I respond with a half-hearted smile.

“Oh, well, there are uncomfortable wooden ones over there if you’d like to sit down,” He said with a charming smirk.

“Thanks.” I could feel the nerves flowing from my brain, to my spine, to my heart that was resting in my ankle, my hands shaking in the pouch pocket of my sweater.

We sat down at a small round table, me across from him, him across from me. His eyes were green and penetrating, and somehow, they brought my beating heart back into my chest, and behold, I was calm again.

A waitress walked over and asked for our orders. She looked familiar, but I didn’t dwell on it too much.

Adam said politely, “Double shot espresso, please.”

“Can I have a French roast, with milk and sugar, please?” I asked with an annoyingly polite voice. That’s one thing my friends have always laughed at me for.

She wrote down our orders, thanked us, and left.

“So, Jane, who are you?” he asked after he watched the waitress walked away.

“What? What do you mean?”

“Tell me anything. I don’t know anything about you. So tell me whatever you want.”

“Um,” I hesitated, and started off, slowly gaining momentum; until it felt as thought I was talking to an old friend. “I’m from Ontario. It’s so amazing, and I love it. I love Toronto. I’m 19. I started playing piano when I was two years old…the first song I ever learned to play was Aura Lee, the “dumb-down” version, but I still remember how to play it, the easy way and the hard way…”

A second passed. “Why did you stop?”

“What else do you want to hear from me? I’m not all that interesting.” I was getting more comfortable; enough so that I could be slightly self-deprecating.

“Here, how about…Have you ever broken a bone?”

“Yeah, but—.”

He interrupted, which I supposed was a good thing. “Which one?”

“My collar bone, but—.”

Again, he made an appreciated interruption, with a simple “How?”

“I fell when I was in fourth grade. I was playing with my dog, and I was running forward, looking backward. Not such a grand affair.”

The coffee came: finally, something to sooth the cold aching of anxious hormonal bullshit.

Description
Dust resonates from the plush purple chairs in the corner, where “artsy” people sit and drink lattes while they pretend to fiddle with their manual cameras. They sneer as girls with purses and badly died hair walk in, laughing. The “artists’” hair-jobs aren’t done all that well, and I resent them for being hypocritical. No, I resent them for being so flawed that they’re perfect.

“What are you staring at?”

Oh, right, I’m out with Adam: the confident one with the jeans that fit well and the hair that makes him irresistible.

“Oh, um…The chairs. They look comfortable.” I respond with a half-hearted smile.

“Oh, well, there are uncomfortable wooden ones over there if you’d like to sit down,” He said with a charming smirk.

“Thanks.” I could feel the nerves flowing from my brain, to my spine, to my heart that was resting in my ankle, my hands shaking in the pouch pocket of my sweater.

We sat down at a small round table, me across from him, him across from me. His eyes were green and penetrating, and somehow, they brought my beating heart back into my chest, and behold, I was calm again.

A waitress walked over and asked for our orders. She looked familiar, but I didn’t dwell on it too much.

Adam said politely, “Double shot espresso, please.”

“Can I have a French roast, with milk and sugar, please?” I asked with an annoyingly polite voice. That’s one thing my friends have always laughed at me for.

She wrote down our orders, thanked us, and left.

“So, Jane, who are you?” he asked after he watched the waitress walked away.

“What? What do you mean?”

“Tell me anything. I don’t know anything about you. So tell me whatever you want.”

“Um,” I hesitated, and started off, slowly gaining momentum; until it felt as thought I was talking to an old friend. “I’m from Ontario. It’s so amazing, and I love it. I love Toronto. I’m 19. I started playing piano when I was two years old…the first song I ever learned to play was Aura Lee, the “dumb-down” version, but I still remember how to play it, the easy way and the hard way…”

A second passed. “Why did you stop?”

“What else do you want to hear from me? I’m not all that interesting.” I was getting more comfortable; enough so that I could be slightly self-deprecating.

“Here, how about…Have you ever broken a bone?”

“Yeah, but—.”

He interrupted, which I supposed was a good thing. “Which one?”

“My collar bone, but—.”

Again, he made an appreciated interruption, with a simple “How?”

“I fell when I was in fourth grade. I was playing with my dog, and I was running forward, looking backward. Not such a grand affair.”

The coffee came: finally, something to sooth the cold aching of anxious hormonal bullshit.