Dial Tones
three
Since Il Bistro was off my list of places to eat, and ordering Chinese or getting Subway every night wasn't my idea of an exciting meal, I was forced to start grocery shopping at the overpriced place on 33rd Street that Teresa told me about. The only time I could go was after work—either seven thirty at night, counting in the time it took me to either get a cab or walk there myself, or twelve in the afternoon when I was finished working the morning shift—because I had taken up an aside, an art class at the rec center near the U. My idea of not getting involved in Seattle had gone down the drain as quickly as my idea of not socializing or becoming attached to anything, both faulty ideas to begin with. Despite much protest, my apartment had hosted a “work” party as Teresa had called it, and most of the staff at Beans came over one Saturday night.
The only thing that I worried about was meeting him, somewhere on the street or even just outside of my apartment, on the sidewalk in the middle of it all. I had even seen him walking a few times, back hunched and sneakers scuffing along the pavement in the rain, from one of the few windows in my living room. My apartment was little, just big enough for me, with only three windows in total. Two in the living room, one in the bathroom. Shitty little apartment.
It was a Thursday when I met him, but it was a Friday when I found out that his name was Sebastian and that he also shopped at the overpriced grocery store on 33rd.
I had just gotten out of work, and had walked the entire six and a half blocks to the stupid store so that I could buy something so that I could eat over the weekend, and I was busying myself with the soup display when the bell on the door chimed and he walked in, tripping over himself and pulling a beanie off the top of his head. My immediate reaction was to sprint to the next aisle, already worried that he might see me and try to engage me in another pointless conversation. From halfway across the store I could hear him talking about nothing in particular, the weather or something like that, just being friendly. That was Steven's attempt at making his behavior slightly less creepy, though it was completely and totally futile. He seemed like a nice enough guy, despite the fact that he could talk for ages and owned my favorite Italian place that I could no longer go in because of him. He recognized me when I was looking at the tomatoes, thinking about making a salad and eating healthy for once.
“Hey!” He cried, and slapped a hand down on my shoulder, turning me around without any effort at all. He was grinning, as always, his dark eyes reading excitement. “What a coincidence seeing you here, huh?”
I only nodded, and turned back toward the vegetables, not as interested in them as I had originally been. That night seemed like a mac’n cheese night, anyway. “Yeah, sure is.”
“Are you buying dinner, too? I'm getting a bit sick of rigatoni, not gonna lie.” He reached for one of the cucumbers and inspected it for a moment before placing it the basket hanging from his arm. “I was thinking about having a salad, or something like that...ugh. I hate grocery shopping. What are you having?”
“I was gonna have—ugh. I don't want to seem rude or anything, because, well, you seem like a really great guy and everything, but...I don't know you.” I gave him a sheepish look, wincing when I saw hurt seeping into his eyes.
“No, it's...it's, um, fine. I guess I was sort of overbearing,” he picked up a tomato and threw it into his basket, not even bothering to look, before moving on. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
I groaned and glanced around quickly, scuffing my shoe on the tiled floor. “Wait, wait, wait. I'm sorry, too, okay? I just don't do well with nice strangers, and everyone at work has been giving me crap about it, and you own my, like, favorite Italian place in Seattle, and...”
“So you've heard of Il Bistro,” he muttered and raised one eyebrow, curious again, and smiled softly. “Liar, liar, pants on fire.”
The only thing that I worried about was meeting him, somewhere on the street or even just outside of my apartment, on the sidewalk in the middle of it all. I had even seen him walking a few times, back hunched and sneakers scuffing along the pavement in the rain, from one of the few windows in my living room. My apartment was little, just big enough for me, with only three windows in total. Two in the living room, one in the bathroom. Shitty little apartment.
It was a Thursday when I met him, but it was a Friday when I found out that his name was Sebastian and that he also shopped at the overpriced grocery store on 33rd.
I had just gotten out of work, and had walked the entire six and a half blocks to the stupid store so that I could buy something so that I could eat over the weekend, and I was busying myself with the soup display when the bell on the door chimed and he walked in, tripping over himself and pulling a beanie off the top of his head. My immediate reaction was to sprint to the next aisle, already worried that he might see me and try to engage me in another pointless conversation. From halfway across the store I could hear him talking about nothing in particular, the weather or something like that, just being friendly. That was Steven's attempt at making his behavior slightly less creepy, though it was completely and totally futile. He seemed like a nice enough guy, despite the fact that he could talk for ages and owned my favorite Italian place that I could no longer go in because of him. He recognized me when I was looking at the tomatoes, thinking about making a salad and eating healthy for once.
“Hey!” He cried, and slapped a hand down on my shoulder, turning me around without any effort at all. He was grinning, as always, his dark eyes reading excitement. “What a coincidence seeing you here, huh?”
I only nodded, and turned back toward the vegetables, not as interested in them as I had originally been. That night seemed like a mac’n cheese night, anyway. “Yeah, sure is.”
“Are you buying dinner, too? I'm getting a bit sick of rigatoni, not gonna lie.” He reached for one of the cucumbers and inspected it for a moment before placing it the basket hanging from his arm. “I was thinking about having a salad, or something like that...ugh. I hate grocery shopping. What are you having?”
“I was gonna have—ugh. I don't want to seem rude or anything, because, well, you seem like a really great guy and everything, but...I don't know you.” I gave him a sheepish look, wincing when I saw hurt seeping into his eyes.
“No, it's...it's, um, fine. I guess I was sort of overbearing,” he picked up a tomato and threw it into his basket, not even bothering to look, before moving on. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
I groaned and glanced around quickly, scuffing my shoe on the tiled floor. “Wait, wait, wait. I'm sorry, too, okay? I just don't do well with nice strangers, and everyone at work has been giving me crap about it, and you own my, like, favorite Italian place in Seattle, and...”
“So you've heard of Il Bistro,” he muttered and raised one eyebrow, curious again, and smiled softly. “Liar, liar, pants on fire.”