I waited at the crosswalk, legs shivering against the wind. I knew I looked great in my favorite red double-breasted coat and short black skirt, but it left my legs exposed to the elements. In my defense, the skirt I had chosen to wear to meet Weston made my legs look stunning, but didn’t do me any favors in the comfort department. It’s a price a gal pays for fashion. The walk sign flashed, and I scurried across the street.
Weston seemed like a nice guy online, but the evening was a total bust. He stared at his phone during dinner and gave me curt, one-word answers to my questions, Jerk. I ruined a perfectly nice evening of warm tea, pajama bottoms, two lap cats, and binge-watching Bridgerton reruns to sit through that experience. Dating sucks.
I needed a reward for getting out there again, and a hot tea latte on this cold evening sounded perfect. I hurried to a late-night coffee shop nearby. I opened the door to come in from the cold. The place was packed, but eerily quiet. College finals were this week, and the shop was filled with a laptop-toting young clientèle. I was overdressed for this sweatshirt-wearing crowd, but they were too stressed to notice.
A small round table with two chairs sat empty in the back. I ordered my drink and shuffled over to the table, staking my claim. I fished my small e-reader from my stylish, but insanely expensive, purse and opened it to my current book. I always carried that thing. You never know when boredom will strike, and you need on-the-go entertainment.
But instead of reading, I stared at the open screen and relived the events of the past evening. Weston was cute, with brown curls and a dark complexion. Too bad I’ll never see him again. I sighed.
Before him, I dated Dustin and learned about ‘bronies’. Dustin confessed he was an avid fan of My Little Pony dolls and paraphernalia. I couldn’t wrap my head around the psychology of an ambitious physical therapist whose hobby resembled that of a six-year-old girl. I tried to be open-minded, but I couldn’t handle it. It seemed so foreign to me. I had ghosted him shortly after that. I feel guilty and ashamed that I judged him for it, but I did. I never said I was perfect.
Caleb was interesting. I had been dating him for an entire month before I found out he hated women like me. He worshiped all the bro podcasters and hid his resentment until a particularly uncomfortable conversation, when his misogyny spilled out over a shared banana split. He had asked why I was still single, a common enough question, I guess. I answered that my relationships just hadn’t worked out. I fished out the cherry from the vanilla ice cream.
He nodded, as if he understood. “Yeah, I can see why feminism gets in the way of a healthy relationship.” He took a bite of chocolate ice cream.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, you know. All women have the same urges, right?” The chocolate ice cream pooled on his tongue as he spoke with a full mouth. “To have children. Care for a husband. Right?”
“I don’t. I wouldn’t call myself the caregiving type. I have over three decades of experience to prove it.” It was true. As a teenager, I declined all babysitting requests and preferred to mow lawns and weed garden beds. My mother learned I failed to inherit her caregiver gene when she broke her leg. Instead of being the dutiful eldest daughter who sacrificed her career to care for her mother full-time, I hired a nurse for her. My mother clearly was disappointed that I failed to live up to her expectations. But I had always bristled at her expectations, so whatever.
Caleb nodded again, but this time, he could not hide his condescending tone. “You are unconsciously denying these urges because feminism has taught you not to have them. It’s okay. It takes time to unlearn them.” He patted my arm.
I couldn’t run away fast enough from that dumpster fire of a man. I didn’t just ghost him, I blocked his ass.
The painful rumination of my dating history was interrupted by the barista calling out my order. She set it on the counter across the shop. I maneuvered through the room, wrapped my fingers around the warm cardboard cup, and headed back to my seat. In the other chair at my table, a man sat, opening up his laptop.
“Excuse me,” I said when I reached him. “I was sitting here. Didn’t you see my e-reader?” My bright turquoise reader sat on the table across from him and his laptop.
“I did. Sorry, I know this is odd, but I was hoping I could share the table with you. It’s really busy in here, and I desperately need to finish some work. Do you mind?”
It was an odd request. People usually kept to themselves in coffee shops. It’s an unspoken special etiquette, but I’ve also never seen someone argue over a table. I didn’t want to cause a scene, and I didn’t need the table to read.
“Not a problem. I’m not really using the table anyway.” As I spoke these words, it became obvious he wasn’t a typical college student. The smile he gave me in response formed lines around the corners of his lips. He lacked the effortless shaggy haircut the local college boys sported. Instead, his blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, with gray hairs coloring his temples. A stubbly blond goatee wrapped around his mouth and chin, flecked with brown and gray. But his eyes intrigued me the most, not the color or depth of them, but his eye contact. He held my gaze. His eyes conveyed confidence, respect, and a bit of mischief. Suddenly, I was thankful he would be sitting across from me, even if we weren’t going to speak another word to each other. But I wanted to try my hand at casual flirting.
“So are you studying, too?” I asked.
He shook his head, but kept his disarming smile. “No, the opposite. I actually have to prepare a final exam.”
“Oh, so you’re a professor at the University?”
“A visiting one. I’ll be here the next few semesters.”
“What subject? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I don’t mind. Mathematics.”
I had nothing to say to that, as my own degree in art therapy wouldn’t have contributed anything to the conversation. I did a quick check on the status of my flirtation skills and determined they were not up to the challenge. “I see. Well, I won’t keep you any longer, then.”
“I get it. Not a very interesting subject to most people. But I appreciate you allowing me to sit here and work.” I smiled, nodded firmly, and opened up my e-reader to start my book, indicating I agreed to cease the conversation.
But I struggled to read my book. I could not concentrate. The professor smelled like cedar, cinnamon, and soap. It was intoxicating. I glanced up at him, using only my eyes for the tiniest second. His eyes focused on the screen. His cheeks and forehead glowed in the light of the monitor, and his brow furrowed in concentration. He was a handsome man, with rugged features, if a little bit slighter in build than I usually dated. On a normal day, I didn’t find long hair attractive on a guy, but this man pulled it off well. His hair flowed seamlessly into his light skin, adding depth to his face. My mind raced. How could I start a conversation again without appearing desperate?
Never mind. He could be a serial killer, for all I knew. Or worse. I was only in this romantic mood because that evening’s date had recently crashed and burned. Pining for the next man in my age range who happened to walk by, or, in this case, who walked by and sat down in front of me, was merely a reaction to disappointment. Desperation will do that to a gal.
“Hi Carmen,” a male voice greeted me. I knew that voice. One that made me cringe. One that increased my heart rate. One that flashed panic into my throat. Thomas. Compared to all my bad dates, he had been the worst.
I looked at the familiar face that I had spent two years with; pudgy, ruddy, with small blue eyes that I just realized are too close together. I had run from that face five years ago, mere weeks before I would have gone through with the marriage that I am certain would have been a classic domestic disturbance hellhole. I said nothing and stared at him.
“Good to see you,” he said.
I looked over at the professor, who watched the interaction, or lack thereof, with interest. His eyebrows raised, and his eyes darted between Thomas and me. I sat frozen in place.
Could the professor see the memories flash before my eyes? Thomas and I sprawled in a full-size bed after mind-bending sex, both of us panting and sweating. The argument outside the rental jeep on the side of the highway as he screamed that I was the worst driver in the world. The nasty comments on every gift I gave him one Christmas, after he persuaded me to decline my family’s invitation. Thomas’s constant threat to punch me in the face if I didn’t shut my mouth, or stop crying, or run to the bathroom, or sass him. He frequently brought a fist up and back as if he was ready to do so.
But what finally escalated his violence was that I left a pot of food on the stove to cool. It had been there too long, he said. I was always so lazy, he said. I was lucky to have him to clean up after my messes, he said. I was a piece of shit, he said. He stormed into the kitchen, grabbed my hands, and flung me into the wall. I don’t remember much after that, except that I woke up on the floor and he was still yelling.
I saw our future clearly in the moment of blackness between the wall and the floor. Isolation from my friends and family. Lack of funds to pay the bills, as he spent every last dime I made. Screaming. Fear. Terror. Control. I wanted none of it.
It had been a painful week, but I moved out with a shield of friends, family, and co-workers. They had rallied around me, forming a wall between Thomas and me so I could collect my things. Next, I spent countless hours in therapy, processing what had happened. I, an educated woman, had been in an abusive relationship. I learned the pattern of abusive behaviors, how they can manipulate, and the warning signs I should have heeded. For a while, I had thought all men were like him. That all men would shower me with compliments and affection, only to throw me into their prison. It had taken me years to build back the courage to attempt the dating thing again.
I had known Thomas was still in the city, but this was the first time our paths had crossed. He cleared his throat. “It seems you’ve lost your manners, what little you had.” As per his usual interaction playbook, he switched into charm mode for the professor. Thomas turned to him and flashed a perfect grin. “I’m Thomas, Carmen’s ex-fiance, and you are…?” He extended his hand. The professor didn’t shake it.
“I’m busy.” The professor looked back at his laptop. Thomas looked taken aback.
“Well, excuse me,” Thomas said. His voice dropped. “I guess one asshole deserves another.” Only the professor and I could hear the insult.
I took a slow breath in. Thomas was unpredictable, but he wanted to be seen as the good guy, especially in public. That was his insecurity. He would take pleasure in privately hurting someone, but he wanted to look charming and blameless to the crowds. I could use the crowds to my advantage. I was no longer under his power.
I glanced at the professor, who was still staring at his screen. Then I turned and looked Thomas in the eye. “You look good. But I can’t say it’s good to see you.” I raised my voice slightly in the quiet coffee shop. “It’s over. And I won’t let you hurt me anymore.” A few of the other customers lifted their heads to look at us. Thomas glanced around the shop, shifting his weight. I raised my voice even louder. “I’m sure your friends are waiting for you. So goodbye.”
I had no idea whether any friends were with him, but I gave him a clear way out of the situation so he could save face with everyone who now stared in our direction. I didn’t break eye contact. He swallowed and smiled, taking on the role of charmer. “Goodbye. Take care of yourself.” He leaned in as if to give me a European-style goodbye kiss on the cheek, an oddity in this American city. I instinctively flinched back, with a look of disgust on my face. He whispered, “You still are a lazy, worthless piece of shit” near my ear. He turned and left the coffee shop.
I breathed out slowly. My heart was beating fast. Adrenaline now emptied from my bloodstream, and my shoulders dropped. My body knew the threat had gone. I looked around at the other patrons; several returned to staring at their laptops. I made eye contact with one woman, who smiled and gave a nod of approval. I noticed two other individuals put down their phones. Were people filming this? I didn’t think the interaction was internet-worthy.
“You handled that well,” said the professor. He smiled, the wrinkles deepening beside his grin.
“I thought you weren’t paying attention.” I chuckled.
“To the contrary. I thought something was wrong. Your confidence melted immediately when he showed up. But you regained it quickly. You were calm, clear, and clever.”
“So you were listening the whole time?”
“Yup. And I messaged four of my students who are sitting in this coffee shop. I asked them to video us. I was about to get involved, and wanted some video proof of what happened in case things got ugly.”
“Wow. Chivalrous and cautious at the same time. I bet only a mathematics university professor would think of something that smart.” I gave a sideways smile.
He laughed, and his wrinkles deepened even further, a sight that sparked my excitement. “My name is Byron. And you must be Carmen,” he said and extended his hand to shake.
I’m guessing that Byron finished preparing his final exam in the early morning hours, because he didn’t look at his laptop again while we talked until the coffee shop closed at 1 am.