Time Slip

#E67451

I met a guy the other day. I swore I'd never date some stuck-up guy from the campus, 'cause I thought they would kind of be like Kale but then I remembered hearing once from the radio that he's dead so I guess we're all better for it. They'd probably make fun of me having a pen pal, talking about how I would send it through carrier pigeon... I mean, we literally have mailboxes here. Anyway, his name is Chai and uh, I really really like the tea. It's my favorite, which makes me think we're meant to be except he's the ambassador of Vandelay Technologies and I don't know shit... sorry.

I kissed him though. He walked with me side-by-side from the cafe in which I got an iced matcha latte, I'm not stupid. With oat milk. He got it, too, and his own matcha that he didn't drink much of. Anyway, he walked me to my doorstep by ten at night and the streetlights shined over the two of us and his eyes were gleaming. He smiled at me and opened his mouth, but before he said anything I leaped at the chance to press my lips against his just so I could keep him around for a little longer... and I think he liked it too. He wanted more.

A hop, skip, and seconds away from sniffling your sorrows to a homeless man, you are finally past the threshold of Vandelay Technologies. Human and machine alike throw themselves into your personal space, your tote bag tight against your chest as your shoulders tense with the stimulation. You're sure the letter is all crumpled in one of the pockets lacking a few strands of fabric, but that was an afterthought in the explosion of activity inside the building. Endless chatter beyond your understanding, you edge forward to find someone, anyone , that can become the solution to your plight. Your footsteps slow, your gaze up at the stars: fluorescent lights and skylights that shine on newcomers hoping to make a change... it blinds your eyes, you admit.

Chai must not mind the crowds; you imagine he must be used to his shoulders being jostled back and forth, greetings thrown at him as if everyone was his friend. He walks around like he's the main attraction, not like some opening act struggling to go viral. Yesterday, with a hum followed by the curling of his fingers as if strumming a guitar, he was the skip to your walk and the band to your audience. His head bobbed with the beat, his whole body one with the rhythm, energy infectious as you agreed that this song was 'pretty cool'.

"Hey!" Someone else must like that song. Were you humming it to yourself? "Hello? Down here!" He must think you're some poser. You probably looked so dumb yesterday... "Earth to Chai's girlfriend!" Get it together! You cannot let a man get into your head like —

You look down to find a black cat nipping at its paws. With a tint of blue at the end of a tail beginning its leisure wave, the cat nonetheless assumes normalcy by sniffing at your socks. Despite calling you something you're totally not, its fur brushes up against your legs and holds you captive, leaving you to wonder if you just heard this cat before you speak. When you blink, it returns the favor, but unbeknownst to the cat you actually were more of a dog person.

"She's not my girlfriend," the cat seethes, colors now the hue #E67451. "Y'know I'm kinda' just talking? Seeing where it goes?"

"... ouch."

This is what happens when you're a hopeless romantic; you begin to daydream, thoughts of what ifs running through your head, except guys like Chai have to clip your wings before you fly too close to the sun. It is inevitable, really, so inevitable that the process isn't as easy as you had hoped. However, the man spoke the truth: the two of you were in the so-called 'talking stage' and Chai wasn't yet yours.

... that is Chai in that talking cat, right?

You think of crumbling up the letter to your pen pal on the spot. Surely no one wants to hear the rise and fall of your love life in less than five conversations, especially if it's because you're what you fear most: boring. Because that is what all guys think of you in the end, that you are some boring chick that doesn't have a smart phone. A lot of guys from the campus don't even look your way again if you mention that in passing. No one cares that you like flowers, or that you know your way around saving money. They want to ogle at you with but a picture to tell a story, swiping right or whatever to make a pass at you that includes the filthiest pick-up line ever heard. Quite clever some of them are, you admit...

You digress. "Speaking of talking, I... um... totally forgot to ask about the concert venue."

The cat perks up. Still orange. "Oh yeah, my bad! I totally forgot to tell you!"

"Oh it's totally okay, I just... I don't have a pho—"

The cat blows a raspberry over its shoulder. "Huh? You mind repeating that? Someone doesn't care that we're speaking!"

"I don't have a phone so I didn't—"

"Sorry, what?"

You raise your voice, your response hurried and lined with fear that you will never be able to finish a sentence again. "I don't have a phone!"

Campus visitors and employees around you look up from their devices, stopping in their tracks to eye you as their latest distraction. The lot of them look your way as if you are prey, a celebrity to their paparazzi, and you conclude at that moment that dying is a much sweeter deal than this. There is no escaping eyes wide with bewilderment now, not even death. They would simply just watch you die. The thought causes you to claw at your tote, your body tense as it is shrinking; you are an outsider in a world that left you behind decades ago. Now, you just look really stupid.

With the shuffling of gazes, and the spotlight shining on you, Chai beckons you down to his level with a curl of the cat's paw and whispers, "I think they're staring at you."