I sort of like that he’s unemployed. No, it’s not weird. An unemployed guy isn’t looking for a serious girlfriend.
“That’s cool,” I say. “I wish I had a job now, so that when I graduate with my worthless degree and don’t find a job, I can say that I am technically between jobs instead of just another unemployed graduate.”
It was a risk, but he laughs. A big, hearty laugh that seems more suited to a guy who has a black beard and wears plaid and sits in front of a pile of pancakes with butter dripping off them. But instead of belonging to a lumberjack, that laugh belongs to the guy in front of me. Muscular instead of hefty, and with precision-trimmed dirty-blond hair and a freshly shaved face.
“Hmm,” he says, clearly happy the subject has moved away from his unemployment. “Why don’t you think you’ll get a job? What do you study?”
I set down my beer and look at the purple paint under my fingers, wondering about purple eyes.
“Well, what I’m studying...it isn’t exactly what my dad, or anyone really, would call marketable.”
He shrugs. “You should study what you love.”
“Did you go to college?”
His jaw is tight. “Yes.”
“Do you think I could guess your major?” I ask.
“Probably not,” he says.
I don’t like that I don’t even get a hint at what he did before or what he studied. I shrug, start on my second hotdog and then lean back, really aiming for a glint in my eye, if that’s possible to control. I’ll make this a game. “Well, do you think you can guess mine?”
He smiles. “Do I get something if I guess right?”
I hop up onto a stool and let the tip of my toe brush against his knee. When I make contact, he starts, before leaning in. “What do you want?” I ask.
“I want a lot of things...” He stares at me. “But for now, I’d settle for a second date.”
“Okay, if you can guess my major, on the first try—” I emphasize that bit with a pointed finger, “—then I’ll reluctantly agree to go out with you again.”
“I don’t like the reluctant part, but I’ll take what I can get. Now, let’s see...” He rubs his chin as though he’s an old-timey detective. He’s ready to pace back and forth across the room with a pipe and a deerstalker hat. “You like photography.”
Shit, he does know that. I start to hum the
Jeopardy!
theme song. Maybe if time is running out he’ll be more likely to guess quickly and get it wrong? Do I want him to get it wrong?
“Okay, I got it.” He rubs his hands together. “You’re an art major.” His cheeks swell with the weight of his smile.
“You got that just because I take pictures?” I rub my forehead.
“I know more than that.”
“Someone told you,” I say. “If this bet was rigged, it doesn’t count.”
He jerks back and shakes his head, frowning. “No, I wouldn’t do that,” he says. “I noticed you had some pottery on your coffee table, with initials on it, a Q. B.?”
I nod. He’s talking about the bowl I made last year. Initials usually go on the bottom, but I painted them big and proud in the middle. And the bowl is empty. Mandy and I haven’t decided what to put in it. We narrowed it down to fake fruit (lame), M&M’S (which we would devour) or Micro Machines. Clearly, we’re leaning toward Micro Machines.
Luke takes my hand. I think he’s trying to convey his earnestness, his respectability and seriousness of not tricking me into a bet. The pads of my fingers brush against his rough palms and I suppress a sigh. His thumb runs along my pointer finger, sliding to the fingernail. “You also have paint under your nails.” His victorious, smug smile is in full bloom.
I pull my hand away, embarrassed. “Yeah, it’s hard to get all the paint off.”
“I’m sure,” he says.
“Well, fine, we’ll have a second date. But what do I get if I guess what your major was?” I ask.
“I guess I’ll give you a kiss.” He drops his head like he’s resigned to this horrid
“That’s cool,” I say. “I wish I had a job now, so that when I graduate with my worthless degree and don’t find a job, I can say that I am technically between jobs instead of just another unemployed graduate.”
It was a risk, but he laughs. A big, hearty laugh that seems more suited to a guy who has a black beard and wears plaid and sits in front of a pile of pancakes with butter dripping off them. But instead of belonging to a lumberjack, that laugh belongs to the guy in front of me. Muscular instead of hefty, and with precision-trimmed dirty-blond hair and a freshly shaved face.
“Hmm,” he says, clearly happy the subject has moved away from his unemployment. “Why don’t you think you’ll get a job? What do you study?”
I set down my beer and look at the purple paint under my fingers, wondering about purple eyes.
“Well, what I’m studying...it isn’t exactly what my dad, or anyone really, would call marketable.”
He shrugs. “You should study what you love.”
“Did you go to college?”
His jaw is tight. “Yes.”
“Do you think I could guess your major?” I ask.
“Probably not,” he says.
I don’t like that I don’t even get a hint at what he did before or what he studied. I shrug, start on my second hotdog and then lean back, really aiming for a glint in my eye, if that’s possible to control. I’ll make this a game. “Well, do you think you can guess mine?”
He smiles. “Do I get something if I guess right?”
I hop up onto a stool and let the tip of my toe brush against his knee. When I make contact, he starts, before leaning in. “What do you want?” I ask.
“I want a lot of things...” He stares at me. “But for now, I’d settle for a second date.”
“Okay, if you can guess my major, on the first try—” I emphasize that bit with a pointed finger, “—then I’ll reluctantly agree to go out with you again.”
“I don’t like the reluctant part, but I’ll take what I can get. Now, let’s see...” He rubs his chin as though he’s an old-timey detective. He’s ready to pace back and forth across the room with a pipe and a deerstalker hat. “You like photography.”
Shit, he does know that. I start to hum the
Jeopardy!
theme song. Maybe if time is running out he’ll be more likely to guess quickly and get it wrong? Do I want him to get it wrong?
“Okay, I got it.” He rubs his hands together. “You’re an art major.” His cheeks swell with the weight of his smile.
“You got that just because I take pictures?” I rub my forehead.
“I know more than that.”
“Someone told you,” I say. “If this bet was rigged, it doesn’t count.”
He jerks back and shakes his head, frowning. “No, I wouldn’t do that,” he says. “I noticed you had some pottery on your coffee table, with initials on it, a Q. B.?”
I nod. He’s talking about the bowl I made last year. Initials usually go on the bottom, but I painted them big and proud in the middle. And the bowl is empty. Mandy and I haven’t decided what to put in it. We narrowed it down to fake fruit (lame), M&M’S (which we would devour) or Micro Machines. Clearly, we’re leaning toward Micro Machines.
Luke takes my hand. I think he’s trying to convey his earnestness, his respectability and seriousness of not tricking me into a bet. The pads of my fingers brush against his rough palms and I suppress a sigh. His thumb runs along my pointer finger, sliding to the fingernail. “You also have paint under your nails.” His victorious, smug smile is in full bloom.
I pull my hand away, embarrassed. “Yeah, it’s hard to get all the paint off.”
“I’m sure,” he says.
“Well, fine, we’ll have a second date. But what do I get if I guess what your major was?” I ask.
“I guess I’ll give you a kiss.” He drops his head like he’s resigned to this horrid
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