Year of the Chick

by Romi Moondi

  I nodded, still clutching a granola bar wrapper in my hand.

  “And then we’ll use the hair balm and some spray to hold the wave.”

  I trusted Laura completely with my hair, and once she was finished I rose to take a look in the mirror.

  The hair was bouncy with a good amount of sheen. Paired with a hint of smoky eye-shadow, my favourite mascara, all blemishes expertly covered and subtle lip-gloss for the finish, it seemed like a pretty good look.

  “Do you like it?” Laura stood behind me, though fully obscured as I stood five inches taller.

  “I love it, thank you!” I turned and gave her a hug. “So tell me again, what happens now?”

  Suddenly things became strange. My breath was feeling shorter, like it kept getting caught in my throat. And was it me, or was the room a lot hotter than before?

  “We’re actually half an hour ahead of schedule! But you’re not going to meet him early. No, he should be there first to receive you. So we’ll chill, double check your bag to make sure you remembered everything, and then that’s it!”

  “Right.”

  “This is it Romes. Seven months, and thousands of miles of distance.” She sounded like a TV host, complete with the accompanying hand gestures. “But now he’s just a two-minute walk away! A coffee with your Internet dude…AREN’T YOU EXCITED?!”

  “Coffee?” I whispered. “Hot milk?…Syrup?” It was happening, the fear I’d had in the back of my mind, ever since the day I first imagined meeting him (“When I meet him, I am SO gonna puke from being nervous.”)

  “Are you okay?”

  I nodded. I can walk it off. No, I CANNOT walk it off.

  I sprinted to the bathroom. “Hold my hair back!” I cried. “HOLD MY HAIR BACK!”

  Laura carefully held back my “natural-looking waves,” whilst I hurled into the hotel’s white porcelain.

  Once I was finished, I leaned against the wall and felt completely relaxed.

  Why must I always go through that to get to this?

  I closed my eyes and felt a teardrop falling down my cheek.

  Oh no, the post-vomit tears!

  I looked at Laura before I could face the mirror. “Is my makeup ruined?”

  “It’s actually not so bad. We can totally fix it!”

  “Fix it? Fix WHAT?”

  I hopped back up and faced the mirror. Ugh. My once picture-perfect face looked sweaty and flush. Lucky for me I never wore mascara on my bottom lashes, but there were still some tiny streaks of black that needed wiping.

  Laura sighed. “Okay, let’s fix this.”

  ***

  My teeth were brushed (twice), my face was fixed and there was no time left to waste. I slid on my boots first, then put on my waist-length black wool coat, which became very fitted once buttoned (the days of unattractive boxy outerwear were over). Once that was done I let out my hair from underneath my pink scarf, allowing it the chance to bounce freely. My matching mittens I wouldn’t need for now, so I dropped them in my bag, and well...that was it.

  Laura gave me one last look of assurance. “Let’s go.”

  The nervousness was creeping back, but I made it to the elevators without any major disaster. We were truly on our way, but when I reached for the elevator button and caught a close glimpse of my hand, I gasped.

  “What is it?” said Laura.

  “My creams! The foot cream and my hand cream! We forgot to put them on!”

  I was racing back to the room now, with Laura close behind.

  Every time I’d imagined meeting James, I’d reminded myself to never show up late. “The first impression is the last impression,” they say, and I didn’t want this guy to peg me as one of “those” girls, always ten minutes late and only ten-percent sorry.

  Still, we were talking about the softness of my hands for goodness sake. There is no way in hell I’m gonna let my hands turn “granny” from the weather.

  We were back in our room now, with the last-minute effort underway. “Okay. First, the foot cream!” I instructed. She squeezed a small amount in my hand. “Now, vanilla!” She squeezed on double the amount, and for the next ten seconds I mixed and mashed and massaged it all in.

  I put the creams in my bag should some excessive hand washing arise, forcing me to re-apply. “Alright let’s go!”

  We ran back to the elevators, hurried through the lobby, and power-walked our way down West Forty-Sixth Street.

  And then...we were there. Just a few feet away from Musings Café’s entrance, with one minute left to spare.

  I leaned against the brick wall, as a wave of constant people hurried past.

  “Well I can’t just walk right in there!” I pulled down my scarf like it was choking me. Why does it always get so hard to breathe?

  “Romes, it’s okay. I’m sure he’s inside and expecting you. So go in there and smile. You can text me if he ends up being crazy but believe me that’s not going to happen. Just remember to text me at every location. Okay?” Laura smiled with earnest encouragement.

  I believed her enough to take a few steps forward, but I was deathly afraid to walk past the storefront window. If he was in there, he’d be able to scope me out and I wouldn’t even know it.

  That is way too intimidating!

  I took a deep breath and with one more step, Laura literally pushed me ahead. Before I could stop I was walking past the storefront window. If he was facing the window, he was definitely watching me now.

  Which meant the time for looking nervous was over.

  And so, with whatever ounce of courage I had left, I opened the door, stepped inside and with a look of made-up confidence, stared right into the eyes of the man staring back.

  The blue-eyed Internet guy...

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I could feel my body walking towards him. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot.

  Thank goodness for my legs, the intelligent attachments that kept me from stumbling, falling over, or hiding under someone else’s table.

  When I arrived at his table I could only watch in awe as his face produced the warmest smile in New York City. “Hello Roms,” he said.

  Wow, did his face just talk and smile all at once? And how does his voice sound even better in person? Suck it, Jude Law!

  I was already experiencing sensory overload, so when he rose from his chair and my nostrils caught a wave of his intoxicating scent, it was all just a bit too much. I immediately decided I should find out what cologne he was wearing, so I could buy it for myself and douse it on my pillows back home.

  “Hello James.” I was clearly running on autopilot now, because how I managed to greet him and smile was not by personal skill. I was too busy sizing him up, quite literally in fact. And now, as we stood here face-to-face with my flat boots on, and my eyes only meeting the middle of his nose, he was every inch the picture I had mentally printed out and pinned on my wall.

  I started to wonder what was next. Was it time for a hug? Was he standing to be a gentleman? Maybe he was waiting for a handshake? I offered my right hand, but instead of shaking it he slowly leaned in towards me.

  What the hell? We’re already gonna kiss?!

  The first peck on my cheek sent a shiver through my body, and the second one on my other cheek practically made me faint. Like those are his LIPS on my face! I love Europeans!

  “Are you alright?” he asked.

  I composed myself long enough to answer. “Yes, I’m fine! It’s just…where I come from, we don’t usually kiss each other’s faces as a greeting. North Americans have an obsession with personal space, or something.”

  “Sorry, force of habit.”

  I smiled. “Don’t be sorry, it was nice.”

  His expression suddenly changed. “Let me help you with your coat.” I was perfectly capable of taking off my coat, but what a gentlemanly thing to do.

  Chivalry isn’t dead!

  I unbuttoned and he helped me pull it off, revealing the sweatered g
irl in the short purple skirt. It was a very intimidating angle, him standing right behind me like that. Especially because I looked my thinnest from the side, but so much goddamn bigger from the back. Oh well.

  “Have a seat and I’ll get us something to drink. What would you like?”

  I sat down and crossed my legs. Damn this skirt is short. “Maybe just a black tea? But no milk please.” I smiled.

  “I thought you were fond of milky lattes,” he said.

  Yeah, but not when I’m fresh off a vomiting-spree.

  “I am! But really, tea is fine for now.”

  He smiled at me and wandered off.

  He’s buying me tea. Does that mean I have to put out?

  As he stood in line I had a really good view of his side, and as long as I pretended to look at the desserts, he couldn’t really notice me staring.

  So I began my evaluation.

  His faded jeans fit him to the tee, falling loosely overall, but just a bit tighter in all the right places (like the butt and crotch areas, ahem). I also loved the little detail in how he wore his shirt. On any other guy, it was simply a collared black shirt. But on him, the sleeves were casually rolled up, stopping just before his elbows, revealing his heavenly, tanned, and strong-looking forearms.

  He’s feeding my forearm fetish and he doesn’t even know!

  As for his age...well I didn’t really have a good frame of reference.

  What was a thirty-eight-year-old man supposed to look like?

  There were a couple of men that age at my office, but they were dads. And they looked like dads.

  This guy was channeling Brad Pitt, in a Daniel Craig kind of way.

  Hallelujah!

  By the time he returned with the drinks, I took a deep breath and promised myself to keep my hormones in check. I mean to think it was only ten minutes in, and I’d practically fainted already?

  What am I an animal?

  He set down the cups, and as he did I stole a look at his hands. Powerful-looking hands, but not so big and clunky that you’d think you were being groped by a bear. Phew.

  He settled in his seat across from me and smiled. “I hope you’ll like your tea.”

  I smiled and looked straight into his eyes. Any excuse to stare into those perfect blue eyes. “I’m sure I will, and thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  After that, well...after that we were a couple of people who had only just met, with a couple of drinks that were too hot to sip for the moment.

  So I stared.

  And he stared back.

  Then smiled.

  What should I say? How should I play this cool?

  “So how was L.A.?” I asked.

  I listened attentively as he detailed his trip and elaborated on the script, nodding where I thought I was supposed to nod and trying not to spill my tea, the cup now perched in my hands. The conversation petered out.

  Sip.

  Stare.

  Sip.

  Smile.

  Sip.

  In our phone conversations we were able to talk non-stop.

  So why was it impossible now?

  Suddenly the light bulb went off, right around the time when he asked me how my flight had been.

  “No,” I replied. “No, no, no.”

  “I’m sorry, ‘no’ to what?” He looked confused, yet another new expression I was seeing on his face. I made mental notes to remember them all.

  I sighed. “It’s just that, we’ve done all this already.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

  “I’m referring to the ‘filtered’ conversation, that most people go through when they’re getting to know one another. You and I already passed the early filters.”

  “True...”

  I leaned in closer, my enthusiasm starting to build. “The way I see it, we’ve only got a single day, right?”

  He nodded.

  “Well that’s a small amount of time, so we shouldn’t repeat all the steps in our conversation history. Which means I’m going to make a decision right now.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

  I nodded. “From now on, we’re going to say exactly what comes to mind.” I smiled. “So you can decide where we’re going today, but I make all the rules on the conversation. And the number one rule? There are no rules.” I nodded and for once felt in charge of him.

  “If that’s the case...I find it hard to imagine what you’ll possibly say next.” He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

  Ooh, nice vein distribution in those forearms.

  “Alright.” All my nervousness had disappeared, as I was now in my comfortable “psycho zone.” I checked the old wooden clock on the wall. “We’ve been here for what...twenty minutes? And I will honestly confess that I’ve been checking you out the whole time.” His eyes opened wider as I said it. “I’m not even sure how I carried on a conversation. I’ve been too busy staring. But that’s normal right?” I laughed but when he didn’t say anything back, I wondered if I’d made a stupid move.

  Like you don’t have to keep reminding him you’re crazy!

  I had a feeling that he sensed my inner battle, because he sat there silent with a curious expression, waiting for me to continue.

  So I tried to clear it up. “I mean it has to be normal in this circumstance, right? Because the body has five senses, and uh, uhh…we were only using one for so many months!” Sure, keep going, that makes sense. “Which leaves sight, smell…” I was counting them off with my fingers now, “touch, and taste! So I’ve been staring because...my other four senses are catching up!”

  I smiled and crossed my arms. Nice recovery.

  “Are you always this mad?” he asked calmly.

  “Always!” I said firmly, and immediately blushed even worse than the first time my mother found a black lace push-up bra in my drawer. That bra had been way too slutty to be considered a simple undergarment (“But Mom, it was on sale”).

  I took a sip of tea and tried my best to avoid his stare.

  “You are not all that different from the person on the phone.” He paused. “And I’m glad.”

  The cloud of shame suddenly lifted off my shoulders. “Well thanks, and you pass the test too. I mean I figure I at least owe you that, considering how long I’ve been staring.”

  We both started laughing and it felt great. I loved hearing his laugh, and though he hadn’t admitted that he found me attractive too, today I didn’t care about his words. Just show me. As for my blunder it seemed to break the ice, because from there our conversation flowed like Niagara Falls.

  All along though, in its secretly evil fashion, the wooden clock on the wall kept ticking...

  ***

  “Have we really been here for an hour?” I asked, fiddling with my cup which had now been empty for a while.

  James looked at his watch. “Actually we need to get going. It’s time for our next destination.”

  Next destination? As in your hotel room?

  He helped me with my coat again, and made sure to hold the door open for me.

  I could get used to this.

  When we stepped outside a black Lincoln Town Car sat waiting.

  What the hell?

  “Who are you, James Bond or Richard Branson?”

  He simply smiled as the driver opened the door for us.

  Okay James, whatever you say. Or don’t say.

  James held his hand out to help me into the car, and as I grabbed it I felt electric, like a current racing through me end-to-end.

  Screw the Internet. Touchy-feely is where it’s at.

  The leather seats were slippery (especially in my tights) so I slid all the way to the left of the seat. James wouldn’t have that problem in his sturdy jeans, but still he found his way to my side, stopping when our thighs lightly touched.

  Damn.

  I wasn’t sure how long the drive was going to be, so I felt it too risky to get all snuggly on his arm. May
be I’ll save that for after sunset.

  I was smart not to put on the moves, since less than ten minutes later the driver pulled over at the corner of Fifty-Ninth and Fifth.

  “Are you up for a little walk?” said James.

  “Oh my God.” I beamed. “I love Central Park!”

  “I know, you mentioned it in your e-mail.”

  I gasped. “I can’t believe you remembered!”

  “Well, it’s Central Park, not a back-alley restaurant in Chinatown. So it wasn’t terribly hard to remember.”

  We clambered out of the car but I wasn’t done talking.

  “Fine, it’s a normal occurrence to remember Central Park, and you’re NOT amazing. Now hold on for a sec, I just need to text my friend so she knows where I am.”

  He tried to look over my shoulder and read the text. “Ah, the friend who’s here with you? To make sure I’m not an unsavoury individual?”

  I turned around and scowled. “Stop trying to spy on my texts!”

  He laughed. “My apologies, please continue.”

  I turned around and started up again, but I could see his shadow in the snow and it was coming up close. This time I turned around and pushed him but he barely moved an inch. So you’re strong, I like it.

  “Okay,” I started, in the calmest tone possible. “I’m going to stand over there by that tree.” I pointed to my left. “When the message is sent I’ll come back. Okay?”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “Fair enough.”

  I stood against the tree and finished the text: “At Central Park. He’s not a psycho but he’s fucking hot. More later! xo”

  I tossed the phone in my bag and our late-day stroll officially began.

  We didn’t have to make it far to see the beauty of the place. A thick layer of last night’s snowfall, trees with icy branches, slivers of sun peaking through, it was lovely.

  We walked around, kicked snow, and talked about anything and everything. To my surprise we hadn’t started any writing discussion yet, considering how often it used to come up before.

  But it’s fine, let’s just go with the flow.

  When we reached a stretch of beautiful trees with Belvedere Castle beyond, it suddenly hit me.

  Picture!

  “Picture,” I said out loud.

  “Picture?” he said, looking slightly confused.

  Yes, actual photographic evidence, yay!

  I took out my camera and clicked away like a tourist. Most of the time I took pictures of trees to pretend I didn’t care about him, but eventually the time for joint photos was upon us. And I loved it. He was taller so he snapped all of those, and without even thinking, I would wrap my arms around his waist and smile. Of course, beyond that smile was a feeling of intimidation. And how could I not be intimidated? I could feel his rock hard stomach even through his coat.