LKBSsssing

and then the 'e' began to matter

Five years ago you met him browsing in a record store. You were looking for Hotel California on vinyl, but it was not for you. You told him it was for your best friend. It i\happened to be almost her birthday and you while excited were weirded out. It's been too long, you were 'best of' in high school, but high school is over-- come and gone and five years past. You want the record but not nearly as much as you want the salesboy. Liking the way he tucked in his plaid shirt into his faded black Levi's. You pretended not to notice how short he is, though secretly you are endeared to hm instantly.

You are making an impression. You are chatting, a little dizzily, a little too excitedly like you just drank a triple-shot macchiato. You actually just drank a triple shot macchiato, but you don't tell him that. You look at his belt, his hair, you ask inane questions about the store which he answers back matter of factly and with a little laugh, an a smile that lets you see all his teeth. When you look at his teeth you see it. You begin to update like the departures sign at the airport. Everything goes click click click and the truth is revealed.

A moment ago you were 5 years past highschool, bitter and jaded and still slightly blushing with the beauty of youth. You drank a grown persons coffee order, you drove here for chrissakes. Leaving from your own apartment where you pay rent; the one you got after you dropped out shamefully late from university. You, well you work in the food service industry which only makes you feel older and grumpier than you ought to. You haven't laughed like a schoolgirl since, well, since you just met 'him'.

You 'let it sink in'-- he is old.

You are young.He is at least forty years old. You wonder how much older he is than you, you pray for a haggard 30 year old. You are disgusted with yourself, he works in a c.d. shop. How does he work here. You want to know so bad. You want to parlay this into a date, more coffee maybe. You would do anything to have a casual coffee with him. As you wonder how to meet him after his shift without sounding like you're a teenager in a mall-- you curse the mall you're both in-- . Thinking back to waitressing, you think of what the scumbags ask you, stuff about when you get off, and plans already made that you could be accommodated into, you the new interest, the waitstaff.

As you think of all the cretins and creeps, you snap back, sense you're losing him, you are, he's looking for a way out of this chat-- BECAUSE HE DOESNT WORK AT HMV.

You thank fuck. You might be talking to a grown man whose pants you want to jam your hands into that might have a real job. He might teach art to kids, he might repair bicycles. You want to know, and you want to walk beside his short frame. He is so clean, like white paper, but dusty. His hair is not dark, but dustish brown, not grey but dust. His hands look as though he's put them into a heap of ash. His jeans are straight up old, no ifs ands or buts. The denim reminds you of the arm of a laz-e-boy. So worn in. You go to pay for the record, breaking away without much more adieu. As you stand in line you hope things will synch up. Things will synch up. You see him in the cheap bins, browsing on his way out the door. You pay for Hotel California, and you didn't check the condition. you just shell out money for it and thrust yourself into the foot of the store.

" Are you, um doing anything?"

" Like, right now?"

" yeah, i just thought maybe we,err, you might want to grab a bite with me. or something'.

" Like where?'

-- You panic. Do you eat something? Will this be a date? You vow that you will not take him to Starbucks. And so it goes.