Read Online A White Coat Is My Closet by Jake Wells - Free Book Online Page B

have tried to make amends, but he was clearly not receptive to more conversation.
    I tried to console myself and initiated an internal pep talk. Let it go. You’d be justified in beating yourself up if you’d purposefully been a dick, but you were just trying to be friendly. Give yourself a break.
    Though I didn’t understand why the guy had suddenly become put out, I knew I’d completely blown my chances of even shooting the breeze with him. I sank back into my chair and exhaled a sigh of defeat. Without really giving it any consideration, I absentmindedly whispered, “Hope your iPod still works.”
    “What?” He turned slightly toward me and pulled one of his earpieces out.
    I was kind of surprised because I didn’t think I had actually vocalized my thought.
    I looked at him more intently than perhaps I would have liked but answered very unemotionally, “I was just saying that I hoped your iPod still worked. It made a pretty loud crash when it fell onto the cement.”
    “It’s okay.” He lay back against his chair and closed his eyes, but didn’t attempt to reinsert the earpiece. He was quiet for a few more seconds, then offered, “I’ve dropped it a million times. Damn thing just refuses to break.” He went quiet for so long I figured he’d just answered me to be polite, but then, out of the blue, he asked, “What kind of music do you like to listen to?”
    I tried to contain my euphoria. He’d asked me a question. Granted, there was no enthusiasm in his tone, and he might not have cared whether I answered, but at least he was taking the initiative.
    I couldn’t help to be a little guarded, however. Once bitten, beware. I didn’t want to risk saying something that would cause him to withdraw again. Then I found myself getting irritated at my own caution. Why was I so worried about being careful? It wasn’t like I had been overtly obnoxious before. I had just asked an innocent question. Inquiring about where someone was from wasn’t like reaching into their pants.
    My brain was already a train wreck of conflicting thoughts, and no more than fifty words had thus far been exchanged between us. I made the decision to relax. Despite thinking he was drop-dead gorgeous, second-guessing myself in an attempt to impress him would only result in making me look like an idiot. Nothing to be lost by being honest.
    “You’re going to think my taste in music is totally lame,” I said with a sincere chuckle.
    He glanced over in my direction and seemed to be genuinely curious. “Try me.”
    “It sounds so clichéd. I like classic disco, and I like songs by Streisand, Celine and”—throwing one more in for good measure—“Bette Midler.” I smiled. “So, it’s either the soundtrack from a pride parade or a gay piano bar. Take your pick.”
    Now it was his turn to laugh. “Add Judy Garland to your list, and I’ll paint a pink triangle on your forehead.”
    “Hey,” I protested, “they’re icons! I bet you were singing their songs from your mother’s knee when you were a child in Italy.”
    I froze for a second. Damn if I hadn’t again referenced his country of origin. If it was a sensitive subject, I was persisting in poking at it with a stick.
    This time however, it didn’t seem to faze him. His smile remained steadfast on his face and he began to conjecture. “Let me guess, Whitney Houston has a dozen entries on your playlist.”
    “Who doesn’t love Whitney? Don’t you wanna dance with somebody who loves you?”
    He continued to smile. “As long as it’s just one moment in time.” He rolled to his side and looked directly at me. “So, you’re a diva. What else do you do for fun?”
    I wrinkled my brow. “I’m not the only one who knows all of Whitney’s greatest hits. You’re probably president of her fan club.” I fell back against my chair and lazily pulled up one knee. “What do I do for fun?” I repeated his question rhetorically. “Well, I’m kind of a sports enthusiast. I