I’m coiled up over the table, shading in the wood grain of a sketch when I hear him call my name. I freeze, looking up at him with wide, absolutely fucking terrified eyes.
Hi, I manage.
Hi, he repeats. I don’t say anything else. I don’t think I’m breathing. He looks like he wants to run and gestures to the line. I’m gonna go get my drink.
I haven’t ordered yet, I protest, trying to hold him here for just a second more. I can barely move.
He looks about as frozen as I feel. What do you want? He asks me.
The seconds tick by. My mouth is agape in hesitation. My eyes flit across the shape of him, assessing the unfamiliar shirt, the neatly pulled back hair, the stiffness of his posture, the tips of his fingers brushing the chair across the table. I could come with you, I offer. He says okay, and I follow him toward the counter. He almost bumps into me and looks to the opposite side of where I am, almost like we’ve forgotten how to move around each other. Like we aren’t used to occupying the same space anymore.
We make it through the line without saying a word to each other and at the counter, he orders some sort of iced tea. He and the cashier both turn and look at me expectantly and I panic and ask for a flat white. My limbs feel downright wooden as I follow his shape back to the table I’d already spent about two or three hours at waiting for him to arrive.
I stare at him unblinking as he sits across from me, so familiar and such a stranger at the same time. Every muscle in my entire body is tense as he takes a deep breath and finally begins to speak.