“you look like you would be a good barista,” she said.
i don’t know if i should take that as a compliment or an insult. i’m not entirely sure what a barista is supposed to look like. i guess like me, according to natalie.
i also don’t want to offend her, so i tell her thanks. “do you work in a coffee shop?” i asked.
“i used to. back in college. but now i just do data collection and analysis. sounds boring, doesn’t it? i sometimes miss working in a cafe, meeting all the different people, all the regulars. drinking as much coffee as i wanted, how i wanted it, for free. but alas…”
“you went into data.”
“yeah.” she sadly laughed. it looked like a nervous tick. her laugh does sound cute, like something out of an animated movie. though maybe i’m just romanticizing my image of her.
“what about you? what do you do for a living?”
i don’t want to answer her.
because i don’t like my job.
because i don’t have a job.
because i like my job just fine, but other people tend to not like it when i tell them about it.
because i’m afraid that she’ll judge me and we’ll never see each other again.
“i’m an auditor of sorts,” i answered because it sounded neutral. professional and informative, like something i might put on my linkedin profile. it says everything without meaning anything, as any good job title should.
“that’s…fun,” she said politely. “what sort of things do you audit?”
i should have anticipated her question, but i didn’t. i didn’t have a follow up explanation on hand. any least not one that was sufficient enough to not creep her out. i stumbled. verbally. mentally. i stumbled to think of an explanation of what it was i audited without coming across as unattractive. though maybe i had already blown that before i even opened my mouth to say my first words as a child, then adolescent, now adult (in their thirties trying out dating once again after getting out of a long-term, committed—i thought—relationship).
“suicides,” i said. “i audit suicides.”
“that’s—umm…interesting…”
her attention went straight to her phone, and she began texting. she disappeared into a miasma of dating mishaps, and i never saw her again.
(but not in a creepy, killer sort of way. it was more like the date lasted another awkward 30 minutes because she was too polite and i was too awkward to realize that whatever sort of chemistry we may or may not have had no longer existed. she asked a few more followup questions. and i asked her a few questions about herself. you know, standard dating dialogue. but i think we both knew that after the check came, and i walked her out to her car, and we bid ado to one another, that that was that. we went our separate paths, and never intersected again.)
Fred Aiken Writing 