Tristan & Clay

Joe-seh-fine

The restaurant felt homely right as he walked in. The walls were painted in a warm red. He hung his coat on the back of the chair, perhaps not very gentlemanlike, and smiled at the woman before him. She was a girl, actually. Slightly younger than he was. He shook her hand as he took a seat on the opposite side of the table.

"Josephine, did I say that right?" He spoke carefully, pronouncing her name as 'Joe-seh-fine'. She nodded. He sighed in relief.

"And you must be Clay," she spoke.

"Easily moldable when it's hot."

She grinned. "I guess we'll have to see about that."

The conversation went smoothly. He remembered to look into her eyes as they spoke and smiled when it felt right. She was pretty and she talked eloquently. Her upper-class upbringing had made her polite and shy. They talked university, strict parents, sporty endeavors and plants. Why that last one was a topic in the conversation he had no clue. He sailed like a true seaman through the topics, dodging the past girlfriend talk like an unpleasant downpour at sea. It wasn't any of her business anyway, was it? The past was the past and thus, unpleasantries, however much possible, should remain where he left them. Safely locked up in a box where no one would ever find them.

They ordered fish and chips, or a fancier version of the British dish. He felt more like having spaghetti with meatballs, but the same dish would make for easy conversations. The meal was decent, nothing too spectacular.

"The fish is well-fried," he spoke, "if that's even a thing."

"It is now," she said. "And so are the fries."

"Did you bring a notebook to jot down our review of this course?"

She shook her head and smiled again, "I forgot, maybe next time. Luckily there's not much to remember."

She smiled easily, he liked that in a girl. Jokes were his way of dealing with unpleasant situations, though this one seemed to be significantly less of a waste of time than his previous dates. They had been okay, though, they just all felt forced and unnatural. But it was his way of evading what he didn't want to be said aloud.

He held her hand and pecked her cheek with his lips before they each went their own way.

"It was nice, the dinner," she said.

"Idem, I had a lovely time."

"Maybe we could see each other again, sometime in the near future?"

He nodded. "We'll pick a date soon then." He sounded far more enthusiastic than his heartrate was willing to be. He nodded once more, smiled accordingly, and waved her goodbye.

"See you soon, Clay," Josephine said.

"Goodbye, Josephine," Clay spoke softly.

***

"Oh, darling! There you are again!" His mother shot up from the couch right when he closed the massive door behind him. "Henry, he's back home!"

His mother engulfed him in one of her air-expelling hugs and left him breathless. "I'm so glad you're back. It's dangerous out there, my love."

Once his mother let go of him, he noticed his father standing in the kitchen doorframe. "One day she'll realize you're seventeen and not two," he sighed.

"Just not today," Clay said.

"Just not today."

He said goodnight to both parents and dragged himself upstairs. He undid his belt, threw his trousers in the corner of his room and pulled his shirt over his head as he yawned. Pretending to be a nice guy was surprisingly tiring. But one date a week should do the trick. Maybe he'd even become one, a nice guy, that is. A guy who excels at small talk, kissing girls and taking them home. Maybe one day he'd giggle as they struggled to walk up the stairs, careful not to wake up his parents before they dove into bed. Maybe he'd one day make love to a woman and call her his own. But maybe, just maybe, that guy he wanted to become wasn't Clay.