Page 24 of Error Handling
“I promise, I’m nice. There’s no reason to worry.”
“I’m not worried.” The scare and Christopher’s kind demeanor surprisingly extinguishes most of my anxiety. Or maybe I’m just getting better at this socializing thing.
I wait for Christopher to head to the door.
“You first,” he says.
He beckons me forward with a guiding hand, stopping just before contacting my elbow. As I reach for the door handle, he darts around me and grabs it first. He has a northern accent, but southern hospitality seems to have worn off on him.
The evening’s chilly breeze whips my hair as I step into the warm coffee shop. The temperature drop caused by Monday evening’s cold front still lingers, which prompted me to wear my light gray moto jacket and a tan, loose-weave sweater, both atop a pair of jeans and feminized combat boots. Christopher looks comfortable in a simple leather jacket, a casual button-up shirt decorated with muted 50s style boomerangs, and a pair of jeans.
As Cassie promised, he is tastefully groomed. He left a bit of scruff on his chin and cheeks, but he carefully shaved his neck. I’ve already checked out his hands. They’re appropriately masculine, not too soft, not too calloused. His cuticles are cared for but not obsessed over. I haven’t analyzed his face yet. The night is still young.
We file into line in front of a gray-haired couple who followed us through the door. The man is leaning on a cane and his female companion is holding onto his elbow for support.
“Go ahead,” Christopher says, meeting eyes with the couple. He steps aside and I follow his lead. We trade friendly smiles with the couple before they shuffle ahead in line.
Another act of chivalry.
I quickly calculate. Five points for holding the door. Five for the midcentury modern throwback shirt. Five for the clean but rugged shave. And now five more for respecting his elders.
But is he kissable?
Would Chris Butcher open doors for women and act attentively toward the elderly? I have no idea. And I’ll never know.
The line moves quickly, and we bide our time chatting about what we plan to order, as well as disagreeing over who will pay. As much as I appreciate men opening doors for me, I won’t let them pay. Especially a man I just met. After going back and forth a few times, Christopher concedes and says he’ll pay next time, quickly adding, “If there is a next time. No pressure.”
I order first, so I hover by the pickup counter with my black pepper turkey and gouda croissant sandwich and café mocha in hand while Christopher orders and waits. After they call his name, he gathers his food, and we head to one of the booths along the front windows.
The atmosphere in Joe and Go always makes me want to settle in. Plush booths line the walls, and tables haphazardly surround the central gas fireplace, which is ablaze. The countertops, paint, and upholstery are colors you’d expect in a coffee shop: dark browns to represent the coffee beans, light tans to evoke thoughts of lattes, oranges to accent the gas fire. The smells of coffee, freshly baked bread, and sweet pastries wrap around me like a Sherpa blanket. I can’t imagine a more inviting smell.
Except for Chris Butcher’s orange-spiced cologne. Mingled with the smell of fresh yeast rolls. Yeast rolls that he can’t eat. Why did I mock his celiac disease? It was bad form. If I ever run into him again on campus, I’ll apologize.
But I’m on a date withChristopher.
I push thoughts of Chris Butcher out of my mind and focus on the man sitting across from me. While we were standing side by side in line, I didn’t have a chance to study his features. Now, as he pulls his sandwich from the wrapper, I take the opportunity.
You might think a man of Christopher’s stature would be... I can’t think of the proper word. Underwhelming? No. How terrible. That isn’t it. Unassuming? Timid? Those aren’t right either.
Despite whatever misconceptions I obviously have about shorter men, Christopher exudes strength. Literally. Before sitting, he removed his jacket, giving me a full view of his short-sleeved shirt, which hugs his pecs and his well-built biceps. He lifts weights. Often.
His high cheekbones and short black hair read Asian, but his European-shaped eyes hint of mixed heritage. They communicate kindness, openness and inspire a calmness in me that I can’t rationalize. His smallish nose highlights his upper lip, which is slightly larger than the bottom one. I trace the bow shape with my eyes.
No long nose hairs. No fuzzy teeth. No spitting while talking. No wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
I lean back in a mild state of shock.
Cassie is a miracle worker. Truly. But does Christopher find me equally favorable? He already mentioned our “next” date. It’s too early to call, especially since we haven’t had a real conversation yet.
“Cassie’s rather persistent, isn’t she?” Christopher says.
“I think that’s why she’s a successful businesswoman.”
“Probably.” He smiles. “You’re her personal assistant, then?”
“Yep. Receptionist slash personal assistant. I pretty much do anything she asks.”
“Including going on dates with strangers?”