chloe

The crisp night air was foggy and intoxicating.  A few cars flew by on the normally bustling street.   Typically, the fluttering metal saturated the corner where her tidy building stood, drivers in a scurry to some important destination with headpieces and honking. But tonight there was stillness, with a few sporadic footsteps and headlights.  She wished that she had kept this evening to herself to tackle the literature her mother ambitiously sent or perhaps drink sangria at Granada, exchanging witty anectodes and sex stories from the crypt with Jane.

She stepped out of her building, first through the dark jail-like gate that left everything but the hallway light visible to the outside world, then through the noisy garden gate, guarding all but an actual garden and open to anyone over 5'10 with common sense.  There he was.  Prince Charming #5, holding his arm out for her hand and gesturing into his old white Hyandai, with a Free Tibet sticker nonetheless.  His eager expression coupled with his nervous hand immediately triggered her pesky inner voice that usually makes its way into later portions of the evening.

She let out a noiseless sigh and though knowing she should give a cheerful smile like you do on a first date, she gave a somewhat smug, somewhat smirk, lowering her eyebrows in a way that unimpressed young ingenues do on the red carpet after they've been nominated for their first Oscar. "You look nice," he said, hugging her perhaps accidentally, as she sunk into the car. "Thanks, so do you."

Prince #5 was Max, an aspiring TV writer from Islington in East London with neat pastel colored sweaters and an embarassed, nervous disposition she accepted, assuming most British people are slightly embarrassed and nervous.  The ones she had known anyway.  He asked her out in a sweeping statement at a tacky dive bar, which she found admirable and brave.  "Excuse me," he interrupted the table of six somewhat intoxicated girls, drinking Shiraz, smoking Marlboros and being generally loud, "but I would really like to take you out.  This is awkward.  I'm sorry. What is your name?"

At this point, the lights were coming on and all the drugstore bought Tiki accents, Mexican wrestling masks and 70s porno posters showed in all their glory.  The appeal of authenticity loses its luster upon well lit examination.  "Chloe." "Chloe would you mind giving me yo numbah? I think you are beautiful."  His voice sounded urgent, not warm.  Presumably because the bartender started yelling "go home!" with salty glances toward their general vicinity.  Normally, she'd say no or make up some lie about an ambiguous boyfriend named Ryan or Brian: no one questions the Ryan or Brian scheme.  But this bravery needed to be rewarded.  Men had forgotten what it meant to truly earn a woman.  She felt it was her female duty to encourage this behavoir and oblige him.

And now as she rode in the stale smell of cigarettes, a bevy of scattered notebook paper and an awkward gentleman gripping his steering wheel as if he was about to have high tea with the Queen, whites of his knuckles evident to her lowered eyes everytime they passed a streetlamp, she was rethinking this decision.  It wasn't that Max wasn't a nice guy or an interesting one even.  It was that Chloe had developed a pattern that she was simultaneously annoyed by but also knew was her destiny.  You see, she had already dated Max.  (Many times.) She knew it wouldn't work out. She would tire of his useless pieces of Beat Generation trifles, talkative temperment, incessant questions of her life back home and "how crazy" it was that she has no accent and how visibly uncomfortable he would get in front of her friends.

He would pry and try to worm into her life and her perfectly ordered routines, agendas, and ideas.  She would act oblivious and aloof, building another solid layer of brick around her space in fear of claustrophobia.  And after date #3, she would stop taking his calls and replying to his meticulously witty yet succinct e-mails that had the potent aroma of the sitcom he penned.  She would end it like she ends all the others.  Without notice. Not because she was heartless or cowardly but because she found it far less humiliating to receive subtle hints than to be told "I don't want to see you anymore."  Everyone is desperate for straight forward answers in matters of the heart until an undesirable one strikes like a fist,  an agonizing reminder that emotions and rationale struggle to coexist. Her actions were more inspired by empathy than traditional dating protocal.

But they weren't quite there yet.  Tonight, they were at a trendy tequila bar for tacos and margaritas,  with a side of forced interest and incessant nodding.  Between careful bites and salt crusted sips, Chloe learned that Max has a propensity to spend too much money on overpriced successories (the Moleskin scheme, he cleverly called it), was inspired by writers like Kurt Vonnegut and Hunter S. Thompson, and had developed a mild allergy to apples, although he loved them when was younger.  He had two older sisters and a happily married set of parents and grandparents, all still in the UK.  He found French new wave overrated and had developed an aggressive coffee and cigarettes addiction while studying at Uni.  Aside the boring writer cliches, Chloe was enjoying his quirks.  The nervousness turned from distracting to endearing. OK so this wasn't horrible.

photo: oracle fox