fate. I can’t help laughing and cupping my cheeks in my hands. I don’t want it to get awkward with his unemployment stuff, so I have fun with it.
“It’s obvious,” I say. “You studied to be a psychic. You know, 1-800 numbers and there is a dark man and a lottery win in your future.”
He taps his nose twice and points at me. “I knew you were going to guess that.”
I raise my palms. “Because you’re psychic.”
“Exactly,” he says. The pancake lumberjack laugh comes back out. A few people even turn to look, faces contorted into what’s-so-funnys.
I continue guessing odd-and-end degrees that are rather unlikely, such as pet magic and alligator training and shoe designing and porn fluffing (he chokes a bit on his beer at that one). We stay long after we finish our hotdogs, talking about the most random degrees we can think of. Just as Joe is giving us looks like
get outta here already,
Luke finally “admits” he studied fortune cookie writing. Unfortunately, all his fortunes were sports related—you will make a touchdown, you will make a home run, you will score love—so he failed out.
“But all those sound great when you add ‘in bed,’ to them,” I say.
“I know...” He shakes his head in bewilderment before smiling.
I’m starting to really like his smile.
We finally crumple the remnants of our meal in the trash and wave bye to Joe. It’s gotten nippy so I put my cardigan back on. The night is crisp, my ballet flats padding along the brick, the romantic street lamps casting nice shadows along Luke’s face.
“Want to get a drink at Sally’s?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “I’m sort of tired actually, painting all day. It gives me energy but also takes it.” I shake my head and look to the ground. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It does,” he says. “Well, let me walk you home.”
“Sure.” I want to talk more. I want to know what he used to do and why he doesn’t have a job anymore. I shouldn’t be so curious. I hate how all my parents’ friends judge everyone by what they do. They judge me by what I want to do. And now, here I am, thinking it’s uber-important that I know what he does. Why? I don’t even want a relationship. He’s not really my type. He probably couldn’t distinguish a Rembrandt from a Picasso and while his Southern swagger is cute and I’m sure it drives lots of girls bonkers, I am into more sophisticated men.
God, I’m such a snob.
“So you paint, you take photos, you make pottery,” he says, counting on his fingers and breaking the chilly silence and my chilly, snobby thoughts. “Am I missing anything?”
“I also dance.”
“What a coincidence. So do I.” He catches me off guard as he twirls me around the sidewalk enough times that I get dizzy and have to hold his shoulder to steady myself when we stop.
“No, I mean, modern dance,” I say once I’ve gotten control of my laughs.
His smile lapses. He steps back. He runs his hand through his hair. “At Poe?” It’s so biting and quick, it feels like I’m being interrogated.
“Yeah,” I say.
“So you know Rachel Peterson?”
“Yeah,” I say, but as I do it’s already sifting and sorting in my brain. Rachel, our troupe advisor, told me a couple times she had a brother. She said he might move back to help take care of their sister, the one with ALS, once things got worse. Sally and Luke clutched hands that night at the bar. Sally told me he’s back but doesn’t want to be. “She’s your sister.”
He nods.
“I’m sorry about your parents and your other sister,” I say.
He smiles a thin smile. “Thanks.” He keeps his eyes on me.
“How is she doing?” I ask.
A gust of wind causes a few wet leaves to fall and one lands in my hair. He picks it out for me, looks at it and lets it drift to the ground. “It depends on the day.”
I put my hand on his biceps and really try to focus on the seriousness of the situation instead of thinking about how amazing
“It’s obvious,” I say. “You studied to be a psychic. You know, 1-800 numbers and there is a dark man and a lottery win in your future.”
He taps his nose twice and points at me. “I knew you were going to guess that.”
I raise my palms. “Because you’re psychic.”
“Exactly,” he says. The pancake lumberjack laugh comes back out. A few people even turn to look, faces contorted into what’s-so-funnys.
I continue guessing odd-and-end degrees that are rather unlikely, such as pet magic and alligator training and shoe designing and porn fluffing (he chokes a bit on his beer at that one). We stay long after we finish our hotdogs, talking about the most random degrees we can think of. Just as Joe is giving us looks like
get outta here already,
Luke finally “admits” he studied fortune cookie writing. Unfortunately, all his fortunes were sports related—you will make a touchdown, you will make a home run, you will score love—so he failed out.
“But all those sound great when you add ‘in bed,’ to them,” I say.
“I know...” He shakes his head in bewilderment before smiling.
I’m starting to really like his smile.
We finally crumple the remnants of our meal in the trash and wave bye to Joe. It’s gotten nippy so I put my cardigan back on. The night is crisp, my ballet flats padding along the brick, the romantic street lamps casting nice shadows along Luke’s face.
“Want to get a drink at Sally’s?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “I’m sort of tired actually, painting all day. It gives me energy but also takes it.” I shake my head and look to the ground. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It does,” he says. “Well, let me walk you home.”
“Sure.” I want to talk more. I want to know what he used to do and why he doesn’t have a job anymore. I shouldn’t be so curious. I hate how all my parents’ friends judge everyone by what they do. They judge me by what I want to do. And now, here I am, thinking it’s uber-important that I know what he does. Why? I don’t even want a relationship. He’s not really my type. He probably couldn’t distinguish a Rembrandt from a Picasso and while his Southern swagger is cute and I’m sure it drives lots of girls bonkers, I am into more sophisticated men.
God, I’m such a snob.
“So you paint, you take photos, you make pottery,” he says, counting on his fingers and breaking the chilly silence and my chilly, snobby thoughts. “Am I missing anything?”
“I also dance.”
“What a coincidence. So do I.” He catches me off guard as he twirls me around the sidewalk enough times that I get dizzy and have to hold his shoulder to steady myself when we stop.
“No, I mean, modern dance,” I say once I’ve gotten control of my laughs.
His smile lapses. He steps back. He runs his hand through his hair. “At Poe?” It’s so biting and quick, it feels like I’m being interrogated.
“Yeah,” I say.
“So you know Rachel Peterson?”
“Yeah,” I say, but as I do it’s already sifting and sorting in my brain. Rachel, our troupe advisor, told me a couple times she had a brother. She said he might move back to help take care of their sister, the one with ALS, once things got worse. Sally and Luke clutched hands that night at the bar. Sally told me he’s back but doesn’t want to be. “She’s your sister.”
He nods.
“I’m sorry about your parents and your other sister,” I say.
He smiles a thin smile. “Thanks.” He keeps his eyes on me.
“How is she doing?” I ask.
A gust of wind causes a few wet leaves to fall and one lands in my hair. He picks it out for me, looks at it and lets it drift to the ground. “It depends on the day.”
I put my hand on his biceps and really try to focus on the seriousness of the situation instead of thinking about how amazing
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