SOS (sorry so short)

“Yes, well, it’s those damn baristas who insist on making it this way. At home, I have to defrost my coffee.”
Just before my inner hope had kicked the bucket at my pathetic conversation starter, her words smoothed out the unease that churned in my stomach. She wasn’t going to let me ruin this encounter. I smiled at her.
“I’m Jonah.”
“Vanessa.”
We sat for an hour, chitchatting with surprising ease. I learned that she was, in fact, not a movie star, but was in school to become a vet. This struck me as far more endearing. She asked me what I did for a living.
“I run a small shop, filled with old things, books mostly. Do you have any hobbies?”
I was able to keep the conversation on her, long enough to divert the fact that I hadn’t a lot to say and very little to do with my time outside of work. And besides, she was fascinating. By the time she left the shop, she had one free latte under her belt and my heart in her pocket. I did not get her phone number. Still, I arrived home later with the giddiness of s school boy who had just been invited to the popular kids’ table. There was something about her that was just so comfortable, and yet, I was so far out of my league, the intimidation should have paralyzed me. I felt good about the afternoon, and I couldn’t wait to run into her again.
Little did I realize that I’d be seeing her for the next five months.
“Listen, Jonah,” Pete began as we reached our cars outside of the Waffle House. “Just try, okay?”
“Thanks, your advice is useful and elaborate as always.”
“Put in some effort.”
“I don’t know what you mean. If you think I am giving up, you’re wrong.”
“Well, you’ve gotta do something different.”
“I treat her like a million bucks!”
“You’ve gotta do something different for yourself.”
I didn’t know what he meant, but I wasn’t going to sit around and allow him to explain. I mumbled something about a problem at the store before I swung into my car and remembered that the store was closed on Sundays. No bother. It was better he knew that I didn’t give a damn for his advice.

Story A: Part 1

Even though I hated him for it, Pete was right to question my relationship, if only because I was hidden in my turtle shell of denial and refused to poke my head out.  Vanessa was the result of unknown cosmic forces aligning or colliding or just shitting luck on my head.  On paper anyone could see that we have nothing in common.  She can be seen next starring in a Scorsese film opposite Robert De Niro, a role already earning her numerous accolades from film critics.  I can be seen next standing in line at Whole Foods wondering if I bought enough cheese and trying to be discrete when scratching myself.  She is tall and stylish, emerald eyes that whallop you with whatever emotion she chooses, and voluminous brown hair you see in shampoo commercials.  I'm average in every sense of the word, own a wardrobe of strictly faded indie band T-shirts, and never wear hats due to the intense belief that they'll only make me go bald faster.  Her hobbies include rock climbing, sail boating, and attending glamourous premieres.  My hobbies include sitting in waffle houses.
We met one blustery Sunday morning in a local coffee shop.  A chain of "this doesn't happen in real life" events started when she forgot her wallet and couldn't pay for her latte.  I stood in line behind her, and didn't realize it was her until I had handed the barista money to pay for her drink.  "Oh, thank you, but really that's not necessary.  I can just come back."  I was stuck with a sudden and maddening case of cotton mouth.  "No, please, it's not a big deal," I said, desperately trying to swallow, "no point in standing in this long line again."  Her cheeks became slightly rosy, and I started sweating, my neck splotchy with nerves.  "That's really nice of you, thank you."  I managed a jerky nod.  As I was handed my coffee, I surveyed the place and realized there was only one available table left.  Vanessa was just draping her jacket over one of the chairs, and looked up to see me watching.  She smiled and waved me over.  "We can share.  Really, it's the least I can do after you bought my coffee."
My legs walked me to her table without my permission, and I noticed the other coffee patrons failing to mask their glances at us.  I slid into the chair opposite her, mumbling a nearly inaudible "thanks" and quickly taking sip of my coffee.  The liquid seared my tastebuds, my face contorting as I struggled to hide the pain.  She stared at me, and I tried to think of what to say to a beautiful movie star.  I had imagined countless times what I'd say to someone famous, a witty remark or profound observation that would make me seem as interesting as they were.  Instead I said, "Coffee's hot."

Story A: Part 1 (continued)

It carried its own special meaning for us. A sacrament of our own, and by this point in our lives, yeah, it was holy. I’m not sure whether the meal marked the beginning of the week or the end; a reward for the worries we discussed, or preparation for what lay ahead. It was therapeutic. Cleansing. And delicious.
“Okay.”
He said it after I paused, but he probably thought I faltered. He said it with such a conclusive tone that I couldn’t help but feed into it, give a damn, which is exactly what he expected.
“What?” I stated.
“We don’t have to talk about it.”
I hated this. He always did this to me; pulled some patronizing reverse psychology as if I didn’t know what was going on. He couldn’t have pulled an older trick, leading me into letting him to psychoanalyze everything one of my thoughts, feelings, and reactions. And yet,
“What do you mean, ‘keep her interested’?” I asked.
He sighed. “Jonah, women are really complex--”
“Fuck off.”
“--you have to tend to them, like a garden.”
“I’m leaving.”
“If you see your relationship with the girl progressing as it is, you’re wrong.”
And now he was serious Pete. And usually, serious Pete was right. But I didn’t want him to know he was right, so I chewed my waffles and stared out the window. Pete must have known he had struck a nerve, so he kept his mouth shut after that. The scraping commenced. By the time Denice came by, he had the plate bone dry and the sound of metal on porcelain was the only thing that lingered between Pete and myself.
“Anything else for you fellas?”
I looked at the waitress and shook my head. “Just the check, please.”

Story A: Part 1

“What are you doing to keep her interested?”

I wasn’t sure what annoyed me more – the question itself or that Pete asked while scraping his fork across his plate to get every drop of syrup.  Syrup alone made me want to hurl.

“That’s irritating.”

“What?”

“That sound you’re making with your fork.  I can feel it in my spine.”

“You’d rather me waste good maple syrup?”

“I’d rather you not piss off everyone in here.”

“They can piss off.”

“You can piss off.”  He started scraping faster.

“You’re focusing on this to redirect the conversation away from my question.”

“I’m focusing on how unnecessary that sound is.”
“You’re avoiding.”

“Are you my shrink?”

“Do you need a shrink?”

“I think I’m leaking sanity from my ears.”

“Because of Vanessa.”

My right shoulder gave an involuntary twitch.  “What?”

“Are you appropriating your frustration of losing Vanessa onto this sound?”

“I’m appropriating this sound onto you.  And I didn’t lose her.”

His raised eyebrow suggested he knew what I didn’t.  “Jonah.”

“Pete.”

He stared at me, waiting for me to crumble.  I don’t know how he did it, but I think he was hypnotizing me.  The vein in his temple was pulsing with the power of mental persuasion.

“What are you doing to keep her interested?”

My conversations with Pete always went like this.  We started coming to this waffle house every Sunday when we were 15.  Neither of us was very religious, so while other families took their communion from a nervous usher holding a bowl of grape juice, we took ours from Denise carrying two plates of waffles smothered in syrup and peanut butter.