He shouldn’t have worn linen pants.
Cainan knew that was a mistake. No woman wants anything to do with a man wearing linen pants. It’s a fact. Stupid stupid stupid. He didn’t know what he was thinking. It was that pushy sales assistant, Charles. Fuck you, Charles. He glanced over at Sonya. She was just staring straight ahead, not saying anything. As if Cainan wasn’t there at all. Yep, this first date was officially a disaster. No hope in saving it now, he thought. Well, maybe if he had different pants. Cainan wondered if he could drive to the mall, buy some slim, raw denim jeans and then sit back down without it being weird. No, probably not. She yawned, which was followed by an endearing after-yawn sigh. Making herself comfortable, she leaned into him and rested her head on his chest. Arm around her waist, Cainan watched as Sonya’s head moved slightly with each beat of his heart.
They were sitting on a bench in the lobby, waiting for intermission. Tthe autocratic usher with the wispy mustache said there was “absolutely no re-entry” even though Sonya had a dizzy spell while watching the play and needed something to eat from concessions immediately or she could “like, literally die.”
He loved holding her, his hand falling naturally onto her hip bone, feeling her body slowly grow and shrink as she breathed. One of the greatest feelings in the world is having a woman rest her head against your chest. He felt he was protecting her and she trusted him with her protection (even though there was no visible threat to Sonya’s safety and even if there was, having her head against his chest wouldn’t make her anymore protected than if she was sitting next to him facing forward).
He didn’t mean to stare at her breasts. He really didn’t. Cainan didn’t want to be that guy (“dude, her tits were like, totally awesome”), but when he was memorizing the pattern of her eyelashes, her breasts were right there. They were full and round and perfect and Cainan was sure they had the consistency of firm water balloons. She couldn’t see him looking from her position and he was doing it covertly enough that the usher wouldn’t judge him – but he knew he shouldn’t be staring, and so forced himself at last to look away. It was too late though. His body was already excited and began waking up.
He tried to force the eager thing in his pants down and prevent a full-on erection by emptying his mind of all sexual thought, and instead focus on something that wasn’t sexy at all. He began to think of a bear cub instead. Bear cubs are cute and the opposite of ejaculation-inducing breasts. He focused hard on the image of a cub trying in vain to catch a fish in the river, climbing a tree, and playing in a blackberry patch. But once he thought of a blackberry patch, he began thinking of hot blackberry pie and once he started thinking of pie, it didn’t take long for him to start thinking of sex again. It wasn’t going to go away, and because he was wearing those ridiculous linen pants it was only a matter of time before she would see it. Currently, it was trapped by his belt, but as his erection became more insistent, Cainan worried it would soon free itself and there would be an impossible-to-explain tent in his pants. Cainan looked at Sonya’s leather jacket on the floor and wondered if there was any way he could reach across her, grab the jacket and place it over his lap without causing any suspicion. He could tell her that because he was wearing thin linen pants his legs were cold and then ask her for her coat so he could warm them. That seemed like a good idea, but then he realized mentioning his pants would make her instinctively look down — and then the thing would spring to attention, thrilled to have an audience. Cainan wondered if women knew how annoying it is to be a man sometimes, to have this little animal wake up in the center of you, instruct you to forget any grand vision of life and narrow your mind into an uncomplicated desire to get in.
Sonya cleared her throat delicately. What did that mean? Cainan wondered. Did she notice it?
He was desperate for a distraction. It was too quiet in the lobby. That was the problem. Cainan hoped Sonya would say something soon — start talking about the play, discuss the weather, or mock the usher — but she seemed perfectly content to rest her head silently against his chest. He was getting uneasy. He needed some sound, some back and forth between them to occupy his thoughts. He began to feel his armpits dampen as he searched his mind for something friendly and interesting to say. Nothing came to mind … anything then, he decided. Just make sounds. It doesn’t matter. Say something.
“Hey. Here’s a question,” he said.
“Hm?” Sonya said, raising her head slightly.
“Have you ever eaten a blood orange?” he asked.
“What?”
“Blood oranges. Have you ever eaten one? It’s an orange that has red flesh instead of orange flesh. They look exactly the same before you open them up, but once you open them … they’re different.”
He felt her body shake in a kind-of silent giggle and his erection sullenly retreated.
“Well, they’re very tasty,” he continued. “Much more so than orange oranges, but because they look the same on the outside, I never know which is which until I cut one open. Like over there at concessions I noticed there’s a basket of unlabeled oranges. I would love it if they were blood oranges, but there’s no way of knowing. Which is too bad.”
He knew he was talking about the wrong thing, but since he had started talking about the blood oranges, he didn’t want to stop, because the only thing worse than telling a boring story is to tell half a boring story. Cainan began speaking more quickly, his tongue tripping over itself as he tried to get through the orange story as fast as possible.
“One time at a farmer’s market,” he said, “I saw a table piled high with oranges and on a little plastic stand in front of the display they had one of the oranges cut open and it was a blood orange. I was excited and bought twenty, but on my walk home, I peeled one and saw it was an orange orange not a blood orange. It was horrible, I felt cheated. I opened the next one. It was an orange orange, too. Then I opened the next one and the next one and the next one. Orange orange. Orange orange. Orange orange. I threw them into trashcans along the way. When I got to my front door, I only had one orange left in my bag, and I decided not to peel it, thinking it might be the one blood orange in the lot, and I didn’t want to be disappointed. So I set it in a bowl in my apartment and it stayed there for weeks unpeeled. Finally, it began going soft and started to smell. So I had to throw it away. But before I did, I peeled it, and guess what?”
“It was a blood orange,” she said.
“No, it was an orange orange.”
She sat up and studied Cainan’s face. She looked at him like all his life’s secrets were written across his face, that she would know everything there was to know about him by taking note of the pattern of pores on his nose and the tiny wrinkles in his lips.
“Are you from Minnesota or something?” she asked, finally.
“… What?”
“Well, no. Maybe not Minnesota. Your hair is black and they’re all Swedish up there, right?”
“I’m from here,” he said.
“Really? Tampa? And you haven’t been corrupted yet?”
“Um …”
“You’re a Mormon, aren’t you? Or no … not a Mormon. A Quaker! I bet you come from a long line of Quakers, right?”
“No, I was a Unitarian when I was a kid, but now I’m not anything really.”
“Huh,” she said, looking carefully into his eyes again. “I’m sorry if it sounds like I’m interviewing you. All these questions. Gah, I’m sorry, I’m so rude. It’s just … No, I don’t think I’ve ever known anybody like you before … Ok, your turn. You go. Ask me something.”
“Like what?”
“Anything.”
“Well … you never answered my first question.”
“Huh? What question?”
“Have you ever eaten a blood orange?”
She looked back at him.
Maybe he doesn’t feel well, Sonya thought. He does look a little sickly, like one of those anemic male models in fashion magazines. Probably needs some red meat, get his iron up. He should eat, like, five cheeseburgers at once, she thought. He’s pale too. He should get a tan. Then he could grow his hair out, take boxing lessons and — no, that wasn’t his real problem. He was just too nice. He was obviously deprived as a man, too afraid to ask for what he needs. It was almost adorable. She usually dated cocky guys because they were more fun, but after everything that happened the last few months, Sonya liked being out with someone sweet for a change. At the very least, he was something different. He didn’t try too hard to sound funny and smart. That was a plus. And he didn’t start a fight with that asshole usher when he grabbed her ass. Well, maybe Cainan didn’t see that, she thought. He was kind of glaring at that “No Reentry Until Intermission” sign at the time. Men like the usher annoyed the crap out of her. Acted like they already had a right to her, as if her body was a car and she was only the valet. It was her responsibility and she was in control of it, but her body did not belong to her and she could only do with it what she was told.
Sonya had always been pretty — not even going through that ugly duckling phase in middle school — but even when she tried to distance herself from her beauty, people forced it back onto her. Anywhere she went she was always, “that pretty girl.” Never anything else. If she ever tried to talk about music theory with a guy, he would nod politely and then change the subject to how “breathtaking” her eyes were, or some shit. Cainan wasn’t like that though. At least he didn’t seem like he would be. Even when he got hard just now, he didn’t make a big deal out of it — but just waited for it to go away. Sonya once had a guy argue with her that a hard-on that wasn’t tended to immediately would triple a man’s chances of prostate cancer and he pulled up these stupid websites to back it up.
“No, no come on,” she smiled. “Ask me a real question.”
“Ok … um, what was your childhood like?”
“You’re really asking me about my childhood?” she said, smirking. “It was fine. Why? How was your childhood?”
“I asked you first,” he said, grinning.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Well ok, whatever,” she said. “It was fucked up. But everyone has a fucked up childhood, right? Sure, if I wanted to, I could list out all the bad shit that ever happened to me and take it out of context — I mean really hunker down and work to squeeze some drops of tragedy out from my childhood. Like for instance, I could tell you for that when my mom was pregnant with me, she prayed to God for a miscarriage and because I didn’t die she thinks God has abandoned her, and that’s why she’s always quoting passages from Dark Night of the Soul by St. John of the Cross. But why go into all that? It doesn’t accomplish anything.” Sonya didn’t know what she was doing. She knew she was talking too much. Shaking her head slightly, she changed subjects: “You know, I think we should buy all those oranges. We’ll open all of them and if there isn’t a blood orange in the lot, we’ll demand our money back. I guess technically it’s not false advertising, but it’s something. Maybe —“
“Did that really happen?” Cainan interrupted.
“Did what really happen?”
“You know. The your mom thing.”
“Why’re you asking me about that? No one likes hearing stories like that.”
Cainan turned his whole body turned towards her, his eyes focused and steady, waiting patiently. The way he gave her all his attention was too intense for Sonya. She has to drop her eyes. She couldn’t explain why, but knew she could tell him anything at that moment and he wouldn’t judge her. If she opened up to Cainan, he wouldn’t start rubbing her back in a pervy way or give her too much advice (“Now let’s narrow these complaints down to the core issue and create a step-by-step attack plan to fix your life once and for all”). He would just let her talk. Most guys didn’t let her talk, or if they did, they wouldn’t listen — they were too hyped up, thinking about other things.
Hiding a smile, Sonya leaned back into his chest, took his hand in hers and squeezed.
He wanted to kiss her. Cainan felt an instinctual pull towards Sonya, like how a plant will turn to wherever the sun is brightest. The thought of kissing her felt so natural, he was worried if he didn’t kiss her, Nature would somehow be offended. His lips puckered slightly at the thought of it, but he held back, thinking Sonya must be tired of men hitting on her when all she might want is a friend. He didn’t want to cement her opinion of all men, and be moved to the Jerk List. He wanted to be on the other list — be a “good soul” and not ask from her what every other guy must be asking. He imagined a beautiful platonic friendship: They would roast plantains over an open fire and drink hard apple cider, go to flea markets and try on ridiculous hats, learn to fly a bi-plane, and then—
In the middle of that train of thought, though, she leaned deeper into his chest, sighing contentedly, and — weakened by her sweet perfume — Cainan kissed the top of her head. He regretted it immediately. I fucked up, he thought. She’s going to leave and find somebody else to talk to, someone who won’t kiss her awkwardly on the top of her head. Sonya sat up a bit and straightened her back, glanced towards the lobby doors. Cainan, in a brief moment of terror, thought she was going to go flirt with the usher — but instead she looked up at Cainan, smiling. She seemed both amused and relieved, like she was waiting for him to do something all night and it was cute that the “something” was a kiss to the top of her head.
Sonya craned her neck forward and tried to kiss him on the cheek, but she couldn’t reach from her angle, and so pecked him on the side of his neck instead. He bent down and felt the plump of her lips barely sticking to his. They stayed like that for a moment, letting their hearts settle, and then fell into it, surrendering to the full intoxication of each other.
“Hey, stop that,” the usher said.
“Fuck off,” Sonya sneered, kissing him again.
This article appears in Jan 26 – Feb 2, 2017.