Page 13 of Error Handling
“Do you drink?”
“Generally, no. I have to watch out when it comes to beers.” He pats his stomach. “I can drink distilled alcohol, but I don’t like the taste.”
“I tried sake once. Don’t do it.”
“Oh. I can imagine.” He sits up and rubs his palms together.
And my mind goes blank. The conversation starters I’d been storing up over the past ten minutes tumble out my ears and myimagination takes on all the character of a gray room. Much like it does before I try to paint.
Chris goes from rubbing his palms together to rubbing his bare arms. He’s wearing a simple, distressed V-neck T-shirt that won’t protect him from the dropping temperature. “I didn’t realize it would be this chilly tonight.”
“It’s winter.”
“Where I’m from, this would be a winter heatwave.”
“I noticed you aren’t a local.”
“No, I don’t have the accent. Neither do you.”
“I’m an Ohio transplant.”
“A fellow Midwesterner.” He raises an eyebrow and does the half-smile thing. “I’m from Missouri.”
“I went there once.”
“St. Louis?”
“No. I went canoeing on Jacks Fork River. My dad’s idea. I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m not much of a green-water swimmer.”
Chris tilts his head.
“I don’t like swimming in water that isn’t chlorinated,” I explain.
He smiles with both sides of his mouth this time. Pride wells in my gut. I inspired a full smile.
“How do you feel about salt water?” Chris says.
“I’ll swim in a salt-water pool.”
“I meant the ocean.”
“Oh. As long as I can see my feet it’s okay. Otherwise, I’m afraid something might bite them off.”
Maybe I am high maintenance.
Why am I just realizing this? Why haven’t my friends told me? Yes, I have high, nay, impossible standards in boyfriends, but otherwise, I generally keep to myself, stay home on Saturdaynights unless it’s girls’ night, and eat a wide variety of foods, including pickles.
“Simple” emanates from Chris, and not in a negative sense. He seems like the type to adopt the free and easy van life. I, on the other hand, would get hives sleeping in a van every night, and the constant use of gas station bathrooms would trigger a case of OCD.
Wait, didn’t Cassie say Chris was OCD-ish? He is indeed well-groomed, the spicy cologne a magnificent touch, but his hands aren’t chapped from washing and rewashing, nor does he look like the type of guy who carries around a bunch of baggage. His posture says he lets things go and doesn’t turn around to pick them back up again.
But maybe I’m wrong. I’ve been wrong about people before. This is only our first date after all, and our conversation hasn’t evolved much beyond the weather, our places of birth, and his digestive health.
“So, what brought you to Charleston?” I say. It’s a plain, gray, boring question, but we have to get past the basics. “Was it the HR job?”
Chris looks at me quizzically and shakes his head. “I’m a handyman. I’ve been to lots of cities. Once one gets boring, I move on. There are always broken pipes to fix and wood floors to lay.”
Now it’s my turn to look quizzically at Chris. “I thought you were an HR rep.”