Saudade

I don’t date for a reason. I’m not really the dating type. Or at least, I wasn’t. It wasn’t like I didn’t want to date, because I did. I just hadn’t found anyone, and I was tired of looking for someone I obviously wasn’t going to find. So I just don’t date. And since I’m really busy - not really - I don’t have time to date anyway.

But Quincy has other plans for me, it seems.

I know she’s got pure intentions - because Quincy is probably the purest girl I know - but sometimes I wish she’d just let me do things on my own.

Quincy thinks I’m in a rut and that I just need to meet someone. I don’t. I’m happy right now. Or at least I’m happy convincing myself that I am, even if I’m not. She glances at me over her cup of tea, black hair in a bun on her head. Frieda is sleeping on my lap.

“I’m fine, Quincy.”

“You’re not fine. Just give him a chance, Maisie. He’s actually a real sweetheart.”

“He’s weird.”

“You don’t even know him,” Quincy protests, making a face.

And no, we’re actually not talking about Marcel. (Quincy, sometimes, jokes about him liking me, but I don’t think he does because he spends quite a bit of time working and I don’t think he’s the dating type either.)

We’re talking about Luke.

And yeah, I mean, I guess he’s okay, but he’s Ryan’s friend, and Ryan’s pretty special. And when I say that, I mean that he’s just the kind of guy who wears on you after a while and sometimes makes it difficult for you to actually like him. I’m sorry, but he’s pretentious. He’s a music snob and a food snob and he thinks that just because he has a fancy camera, that he’s a great photographer.

I can’t stand Ryan.

But, I love Quincy because she’s my best friend and room mate, and since she loves him, I have to try to tolerate him.

I don’t have to like his friends.

And Luke is his friend, so I don’t have to like him either, right?

Quincy sips her tea again and sighs, looking down at her phone.

“You don’t even have to, like, try, okay? He’s just really nice. And he just broke up with his girlfriend, like, two months ago, so he’s really, really single. And Ryan doesn’t want him to go to the wedding alone. That’s his best man right there. And you’re one of my bridesmaids so you can’t go stag to the wedding. So... just... just go. Go to Starbucks and get a scone or something!” she suggested, laughing. “Please give him a chance! ‘Cause he’s super nice. And cute. Did I mention how cute he was? Like, really?”

“You’re getting married! You can’t be looking at other people,” I laughed, shaking my head.

“I’m not looking. I’m just, you know, appreciating for you.” She grins, giggling. “And Ryan knows, anyway. It’s not his fault his friend is hot. But he knows he’s the only one for me.” Quincy wriggles her eyebrows at me. “Can you please just go?”

“Fine,” I say grudgingly, setting Frieda down in her dog bed. She grumbles a little but hunkers down on her little paws. “I’ll go. One date. Just one.”

“Sweet! He’s waiting for you at the ice cream parlor near the park.”

“What?!” I frown at her. “What if I didn’t want to go?”

“I would have dragged you downstairs and taken you. Don't keep the poor guy waiting. Just go, okay? It’ll be fun. And if it goes badly and he’s a total freak, then text me and I’ll call you with a fake emergency. Bye, Maisie!”

So off I go, into the great unknown.

Well, not so much unknown. I know where the park is, and I know where the ice cream parlor is, but I don’t know who Luke is. So, maybe it is a great unknown. What’s if he’s actually a total weirdo, like Ryan? What if he’s not even cute? What if?

And why do I even care?

This is just a courtesy to Quincy, because she’s my friend, and Luke is Ryan’s friend, and he’s Quincy’s stupid boyfriend.

I sigh as I walk into the shop, humming along to the song playing quietly. And there he is - I know it’s him because there are only families and old people here, and Ryan doesn’t really like old people or children, so it has to be him. He’s sitting in the back, in the corner, eating an ice cream cone with a small smile.

So, maybe Quincy was right and maybe he is really cute.

He buys me a mint chocolate chip cone with all the fixings, and I mean, all of them - sprinkles, whipped cream, chocolate drizzle and of course a cherry on top. And we talk about normal things, almost mundane. And he’s nothing like Ryan, much to my quiet joy.

So maybe Quincy was right.

Maybe.

We make plans for later tonight, after I get out of work - apparently, we’re both really big James Franco fans and his new film comes out tonight, so why not?

Maybe this will get my mind off my weird crisis of sorts. Maybe.



Maisie smiled today.

She smiled.

We went into work today around 6 because we had to finish a presentation for tomorrow. And she smiled. She smiled and laughed and even joked around, a little. And I don’t know why - I really don’t - but maybe I’m doing something right. Except I’m not sure what it is, because I’m just being myself, like I always am. I didn’t do anything special, or make any jokes, or anything. She was just happy.

For once.

Even though she doesn’t really like working with me, or like being around me in general - I can tell she doesn’t but I do try to make our interactions as pleasant as I can - she was actually in a really good mood today. So I suppose it’s a small step in progress towards my ultimate goal, which is getting her to like me. Even a little.

She even danced and sang, a little. She was happy.

Maisie Wells was happy today, and I got to share in that, and if that isn’t the most beautiful thing that’s happened to me all week, then I don’t know what is.

And silly me, a small part of me actually thought that I may have had something to do with it. I mean, we were working together, after all. Was it really so farfetched of me to think that maybe I was the reason she was in a good mood? And if not the reason, maybe a small part of why she was so damn chipper?

I guess it was, in retrospect.

So, we’re on our way out, in the elevator, and she’s humming along to the elevator music and looking at her phone. And she smiles at something she reads on her screen and I smile a little to myself, because if she’s happy, I’m happy too.

So I guess I should be happy when we walk out and this tall dream boat hugs her and she laughs, looking up at him. I guess I should be happy when they walk off, hand in hand, and she doesn’t even say goodbye. Because she’s happy, right?

She’s happy because of him, not because of me, and I know I shouldn’t be upset because she’s not my girlfriend - she’s not even my friend. But all the same, a small part of me is a little sad because she’s Maisie, and she’s perfect and wonderful and sweet and funny, and she’s with... him, and I’m sure he sees everything I see in her, and that she thinks that he’s just fantastic, but she doesn’t even think of me at all.

I drive home to the sounds of an old Killers album - Harry’s been messing with my jazz records again, I see - pick up some takeout because it’s Tuesday night, and Tuesday nights mean Chinese for Harry and I when he’s home, and then head on to my not-so-lonely apartment.

At least Harry’s wearing pants today, which is honestly an upgrade from most days. Harry is just a very free and eccentric person, and sometimes he feels like clothes limit him somehow, so he’ll lounge about in a robe or underwear. And it’s not like I care, but it’s nice to see him wear clothes for once. He’s flipping through the channels, like usual, shouts out a casual greeting, and then takes his box from me as I set my things down in the kitchen.

I walk to my room and change out of my work clothes into a t-shirt and sweatpants.

“Yeah, no, don’t you put me on the back burner, you know you gotta help me out,” I sing quietly underneath my breath - because that song is honestly really quite catchy - tying the drawstring on my pants. And on the way out, I catch my reflection in the mirror on my wall.

I’ve never really been the type to care about what I look like. Not really. Not in high school, not in college, never. I mean, yes, I took pride in what I wore and always took the time to look neat and presentable, but I’ve never been the kind of guy who obsessed over his haircut and shoes and clothes and other things because they’ve simply never truly interested me. That was Harry, not me.

But Harry also got all the girls, so he had to be doing something right.

I touch my glasses, pushing them up my nose a little as I frown at myself.

I’m nothing like him, whatever his name is, and I won’t ever be.

“Hey, Marcel? Do you want your fortune cookie or what? ‘Cause if you don’t, I’m eating it!” Harry calls out. I sigh, turning away from the mirror as I walk out of my room and shut the door behind me.