Page 26 of Error Handling
“Did she have a pointy nose? Like a beak, sort of?” I make an arrow with my hand, flapping my thumb and forefinger together.
Christopher’s face turns red. He ducks into the booth.
“What on earth are you doing?” I say to his back.
“I’m laughing,” he tries to say, but it comes out garbled. He lifts a pointer finger.
“How does this even happen? I mean, how did I accidentally date Chris the handyman, while you were busy talking to an ostrich?”
My comment causes another round of laughter from us both.
Finally, he sits up.
“Her nose actually was pointy.” He makes a triangle with his index fingers in front of his nose.
This causes more laughter. It also gives me an odd sense of satisfaction. Chris Butcher’sactualblind date—the other Sarah—might not be a looker. Not that it matters. Why do I keep thinking about a guy I only talked to for twenty minutes? Why now, in the middle of a date with an equally clean, unsmelly, well-groomed specimen?
“Why didn’tyoutext me Saturday?” I say, trying to calm my laughter and refocus.
“My phone died,” Christopher answers. His face is still red, and beads of sweat are bubbled on his temples. He wipes them away with his hands. I can’t help thinking that now he needs a wipe or hand sanitizer. I never touch my face. Ever. Only when I’m washing it with soap and putting on lotion.
“Liar,” I say finally.
“Fine. When you didn’t show up, I was emasculated. I’m short. It doesn’t take much.” He rests his elbows on the table and folds his hands.
How does a bicep bulge like that when it isn’t even flexing?
Oh. There. Now it’s flexing.
Fascinating.
“You look masculine to me,” I say. My bluntness shocks me and makes me feel giddy. Or is the bluntnessbecauseof my giddiness?
“Thank you for noticing. My birth certificate says ‘boy.’”
“I think they got it right.”
We trade a smile that makes us both glance elsewhere.
I refocus on his attentive eyes and move the conversation in one of a few obvious trajectories. “So, I’m a lackey to a business owner. And you’re an HR rep at the illustrious JetAero.”
“Don’t let the salary fool you. I’m little more than a lackey myself.”
“And you’re not from around here.”
“Nope. I hail from Michigan. I came down here when I graduated from Michigan State. I started as a benefits coordinator with JetAero, and then I got promoted to HR rep. Which basically means I have to wear a tie to work.”
“Do you enjoy working there?” I take the lid off my coffee and swirl it with the wooden stir stick.
Christopher raises a finger in the air like he’s feeling for the direction of the wind and says, “Um...no.” He lowers his hand. “I mean, it’s alright. It pays bills, and it’s what I went to school for. That’s more than a lot of people can say.”
“I graduated with a Political Science major, became a paralegal, hated it, and now I’m going for my BFA in painting, and I suck at painting.” My giddiness bubbles over to laughter at my ridiculous predicament.
“BFA’s are overrated,” Christopher says.
“Aren’t they, though?”
“I’m kidding. Why do you think you suck at painting?”