It Wasn’t Love on My Mind
It wasn’t love on my mind as I slid onto the backseat of my Grab driver’s motorbike headed to the Tipsy Elephant — so why was my heart racing?
I only wanted to see him again, him and that adorably stupid frat-boy grin of his. To hear his voice with its tobacco-baked raspiness and sounding so entirely British. Northern British, from Newcastle — he had clarified this morning when he had deigned to sit beside me at work, the first time in the nearly six months that we’ve worked together. And he had talked to me. Really talked with me. My toes had curled, and my pupils must have dilated into saucers. Maybe that’s why he had grinned at me then. I swear, just above the scruff of his jaw I had spotted the faintest blushing of his cheeks. It wasn’t love, mind you, it wasn’t. Just…anticipation. Tonight didn’t need to be serious. It could be simple. Drinks and music. Conversation. And later, perhaps, it could be a bit of sweet tangling in bedsheets. Asterisk on perhaps; I couldn’t be so bold as to bet money on it.
Still, I did hope so.
As the driver and I crossed over the bridge connecting Thao Dien to Binh Thanh, the oranges, purples, and creams of sunset draped the city-lines with soft shadows. Smog and exhaust clung to the air, thick and suffocating as ever — I’d long since grown accustomed to the coughing. And this evening’s choice tune was one of familiar ruckus: blaring shouts and screaming horns. The chaos was at once mesmerizing and exhilarating.
We rounded the corner and the sun’s colors faded as the Tipsy Elephant flashed into view.
I said “Cảm ơn!” to my driver. The scrunching of his brow made clear my botched pronunciation, though I hoped he understood my sentiment. Biting my lip, I ran my hands along my arms and stole a calming breath. I wasn’t a school child but at that moment my brain must have forgotten that. Years have passed since I last stepped out into the dating scene. Back in the States, alone and me, we were best buddies, we were pals. I liked being alone; there’s less pain that way. But alone doesn’t travel well. Not with me. So, there I was, taking a chance, rolling the dice. I hoped that as I got to know him — and him me; I know I’m not the easiest to like — he might really be nice.
I stepped into a buzzing bar. Locals glowered over the rims of their beers at the expats fussing around like mosquitoes. I felt as out of place as I was likely unwanted.
Unnerved, I turned to leave, thinking I’d wait for him outside.
Someone called me then: Martha, from work.
I stood, stunned and confused, as she waved to me and kicked out a stool, gesturing for me to plant myself beside her.
“Girl! What are you doing here?” My face must have worn the daftest of expressions for she cackled and quaked the table with her fist, much to the whole bar’s agitated bemusement.
The three empty glasses before her clued me in — she was plastered.
“We’re chill, Martha. We’re chill.” I rubbed her back in a counterclockwise motion, habit guiding me more than genuine concern.
“I’m so nervous, Kyle. I spent half the afternoon curling my hair. You think he’ll say something?”
“Your hair is bouncing and beautiful, Martha. It always is.”
She sighed, tossing a few spirals over her shoulder. “I know. I just like to hear it.”
The server came and I ordered mineral waters for the two of us, hoping Martha wouldn’t notice the lack of alcohol through the lime and fizz.
“So…delighted as ever to see you, but what are you doing here? Who are you waiting for? Cause I’m sort of waiting for someone, too. And I’m feeling very confused right now.”
Doe eyes stared back at me.
Our drinks arrived. I slurped a sip.
“Absolutely not! No, no, n-n-n-n-no. We’re not doing that. Not where I can hear, it’s like you’re literally slurping my brains out.”
“Oh. Your three margaritas haven’t caused it to atrophy yet?” I bit my lip, recognizing my words to be harsher than intended.
Luckily, her mind seemed elsewhere, her eyes on the door.
I ran a nervous hand through my hair then snapped it back into my lap, worried that I’d look greasy when he arrived. Something about being with Martha brought out these frantic anxieties in me about my appearance. With a breath to compose myself, I tried again.
“Martha, darling, take a sip, calm down, and focus. Who are you meeting?”
“Samuel,” she said, tonguing her straw. “He and Harry are supposed to head over after they finish up with whatever new game boys are playing these days.”
My jaw clenched, a cold annoyance suffusing me.
“Harry’s coming with Samuel? Like, coming here? Together?”
“Yeah. That’s kinda how double dates work.” Martha began chomping on ice.
“Ah. Mhm. Of course.”
My eyes couldn’t roll back far enough. Harry hadn’t mentioned this was intended to be a double date — or perhaps he had, and I had just been too transfixed on his puppy-dog eyes, as alluring as they were grey. Either way, I suppose the situation could have been worse. If I had to choose anyone to be on a double date with, it would absolutely have been Martha. Quirky as she was, she knew how to keep the pot stirring.
