There is a bell above the coffee shop door. Every time a customer enters, the bell rings. It reminds me of the door of a small shop in a video game based in Victorian England I used to play as a teenager. A small shop was your hub of operations in the game, and each time you walked through the door, the bell jingled, and an Igor-style character emerged from the back.
You are so scatterbrained, a voice whispers.
I can’t deny it; I am.
The bell rings, and I look up. I do this over and over, no matter how many times it rings. It seems the video game has settled deep in my psyche somewhere. I look up to see hipsters, college students, and businessmen and women walk into the coffee shop. I order more coffee, I sit, I work.
And then, after around three hours of making zero progress in the code, the bell rings, but it’s not a hipster or a man in a suit. A man in a leather jacket swaggers into the cafe. His hair is short and blond. As the door opens, sunlight touches it, and it looks golden. A light beard covers his jaw. His face is strong. His nose is hooked, his chin dimpled, his jaw square. His eyes are searching and narrow, focused. He wears big brown biker’s boots and faded blue jeans. On the back of his leather jacket, there is a picture of a woman dressed in thin white fabric screaming. Above the image are the letters: THE ANGUISHED.
My first response is: He is handsome.
I have been trying to stop myself from doing that: from judging men on first glance based on their appearance. I’m meant to be a modern progressive feminist, a super-feminist, who sees right through your face and into your heart. Barf, yeah right.
The man swaggers up to the counter, shoulders shifting. People move aside from him as though by instinct. He walks like he owns the room.
One of the women behind the counter has gone on break. The other two are about my age - at the very least, in their early twenties. One of them wears her hair in a bun with a pink ribbon tied around it, her face fresh and elfin, the other is short and thin, girlish, with freckles covering her cheeks. When the man leans on the counter, the girlish one giggles and looks up at the man under coquettish eyelashes. The one with the ribbon in her hair blushes.
From where I’m sitting, I can hear their conversation. I tell myself to focus on my work, but the man’s muscles are pressing through his leather jacket. It’s like his muscles are going to burst out of the leather. From the way he’s leaning on the counter, I can see that his arm muscles are huge, tight.
“Hello, pretty ladies,” he smiles, looking over the two women.
What a jerk.
But it’s none of my business, and I shouldn’t even be listening. But I can’t help but peep over the top of my laptop. The code is laid out in lines and lines, willing me to go back to it, but my eyes stray up and fix on the man in the leather jacket.
The pink-ribbon girl giggles.
What is she, twelve? Get some goddamn self-respect.
“I came here for coffee, but I might have to drop that idea.” He smiles, and even from where I’m sitting, I’m drawn into the smile. It’s easy and carefree, the smile of a man without a single care in the world.
“W-why?” the freckled woman mutters.
“Because I’ll be leaving with two dates instead,” the man says.
Then the pink-ribbon woman stands up straight and stares at him, as though this is a big moment and she’s being brave. She bites her lip. “You’re too much,” she says.
He steps away from the counter and spreads his hands. “I’m too much,” he agrees, and then winks at her.
She blushes beetroot-red.
He just winked, woman. He didn’t climb over the counter and go down between your legs. Jesus.
Am I jealous?
My hands turn into fists at the question, my fingernails digging into my palms. Jealous? I have no reason to be jealous. I don’t know this man. A stranger in a leather jacket. A cheesy pickup flirty stranger. A stranger with no shame who’ll flirt with anyone.
Then, to my shock, the girlish one leans on the counter and says, right in the man’s face, “I get off in an hour and a half.”
She gets off in an hour and a half!
My fists are clenched so hard my knuckles turn white.
Why do I care? Is it just because he’s hot? Am I really that shallow?
Maybe that’s a rabbit hole I shouldn’t be too eager to go down.
I have to just ignore him. This happens every day, I bet. Some handsome man struts into your life, flirts with somebody else in front of you and then struts away. Probably half the women in this place are thinking the same thing as me. Yes, but are they clenching their fists in jealousy and lust? Are they so horny for this random man that they’re—
“Shut it,” I whisper, wishing there was an off button for your inner monologue.
“I’m sorry, pretty lady, but I’m busy. A man has to work.”
The woman with the freckles nods, and then shuffles to the other end of the counter. The man tells the pink-ribbon woman, “Fourteen coffees, please. Black, sugar, none of that artificial stuff. To go.”
The woman nods, pressing buttons on the cash register. Ting-ting-ting! And then the man turns to look around the room. He does this as though he is the boss and all of us, the regular customers, are his employees. I have never before seen a man so full of his own confidence. I’ve seen my share of cocky men, of blustering men, of oh-look-at-me men. But never a man who was just at ease, who looked like he seriously didn’t care what people thought of him.
Careful, I tell myself. Don’t be one of those women who fall for a stranger in the—
The man’s gaze comes to rest on me. I think he’s just going to skim over me, but he doesn’t. His gaze holds in place. His eyes, I see, are bright blue. A tattoo climbs from the top of his jacket, up his neck, almost to his chin. And tattoos crawl out of his sleeve over his hands. I didn’t notice them before, but when I do, a shiver moves through me.
He looks at me, and I find myself staring back. My mouth falls open. He smirks. Then he lets his mouth fall open, mimicking me. I close my mouth, my face burning. He laughs, and for a moment the whole coffee shop goes quiet at the sound. The man doesn’t care. His gaze stays locked on me. Without turning to the counter, he says, “I’ll have one more coffee. White, with lots of sugar.”
Is that for me? I think.
As though reading my mind, his smirk grows wider. His eyes don’t move from me. People from adjacent tables begin to look at me suspiciously, as though asking why that strange man in the leather jacket is staring at me. I shrug my shoulders when the hipster man arches his eyebrow at me. And when I turn back, the man is still staring at me.
I’m freaked out, I tell myself. Yes, that’s what I am. Not intrigued. Not interested. Not curious. No, I’m full-blown freaked out. This man is scaring me. That’s the line.
But that’s just what it is: a line. Because I am intrigued, interested, curious.
His smirk grows wider and wider as he watches me. Images invade my mind, naughty images: the man in the leather jacket bent over me; his chiseled face close to my body; his jacket crumpling in my hand as I tear it away; falling to my knees; and…
No, I tell myself. That’s not you. You’re not like that.
I meet his gaze and then roll my eyes.
Then, quickly so I don’t change my mind, I gather up my things and pace from the coffee shop. The man watches me leave, that same smirk on his face.
But then the bell jingles and I am on the street, panting.