“Hawks, man,” Kyle said, tone hushed but enthusiastic, gazing brightly at her from across the table. “Reptiles, eh, I don’t know. I mean, I can take or leave them. But birds rule, especially hawks. They’re such a sight to behold, you know? In flight?”
Mary was thrown. Not just by this specific comment, but by this whole encounter. In her experience, increasingly vast, all coffee shop blind dates centered on the exchange of personal info: employment, life history, future goals. This Kyle guy operated on a different, more zoology–based template. Except for confirming that he worked as a graphic designer, which Mary knew from her aunt, the matchmaker, but only confirming, mind you, not elaborating, he had said zilch about his actual life. He was bored by her facts too, having become glazy–eyed when she talked about her job as a concert promoter, and downright fidgety during her recap of last night’s club–hopping. Then again, fidgets could signify things other than boredom. Who could say? Maybe he had pictured her on a crowded dance floor, dripping sweat in a tight top, and become uncomfortably stirred.
She squinted thoughtfully. “Hawks,” she said, fingering a frizzy dark strand.“Um, yeah. I mean, I don’t really have a well–formed opinion. I like your spunk, though.”
It was true, she did like him. She hadn’t been sure at first. His voice was clumpy, like a hike through muddy trails. He was decent–looking, far from dazzling. Crooked nose, acne skin, but with a lean build and sauntering shoulders. And his eyes! Swampy–green, they regarded everything, including her, with keen intensity. She had never felt so looked at before. Most guys seemed to register girls strictly in broad terms, as hot or not–hot, and in her case usually the latter, thanks frizzy hair, goosy neck, whereas Kyle seemed not only to register her full and precise self, but to be basking in radiance.
Suddenly he was on his feet, grinning, set to saunter. “Like a refill?”
She gave him her empty cup and her best smile. “Love one.”
Waiting, she envisioned the goodbye kiss, probably not far off. But the gorgeous spring day, singing in through the coffee shop window, sang to her of extension. That was the beauty of Saturday afternoon dates—afternoon could so easily slip into evening.
When he returned with their coffees, she spoke before he even had a chance to sit down. “Wanna go to a club and get a beer? Not now, of course, but in a bit?”
He frowned strangely. “I don’t drink,” he said finally. “Never really did.”
“Oh! Okay. Maybe a walk, then? It’s so nice out.”
Long pause. Ominous sigh. “Actually, you know what? Maybe we should just, uh…call it a date. This was fun, sincerely, but I don’t think we’re a match.”
Panic flooded her. Also, understanding. He was a go–slow guy and, in his deep–seeing eyes, she was a party girl, sizzle–hot but slutty. “No, wait, no, no, no,” she said