Oliver walked funny. Sometimes he went too far right and then too far left. It was problematic, he despised the way he walked. Another passerby is hit by him. He punished his leg with a slap and ordered himself to just get in the coffee shop already. Such a klutz. His hands were a total different issue. Fingers were all crooked and strangely fat. They looked like sausages, which reminded him that he was starving.
“Chocolate cake, please.”
Just after ordering he realized his mistake. His inner voice was giving him the scolding of a lifetime. Chocolate cake on a date? Are you serious? What kind of image are we going for, Oliver? He has to think of you as mysterious, independent. We talked about this when you were setting up your online profile. Cake screams neediness! Fix it, fast!
“I’d like a spoon, if that’s ok”
His crooked and fat hand awarded him with a facepalm. He was on the verge of tears. The inner voice went for a sarcastic comment this time. Now you did it, Oliver. A spoon. Very mysterious indeed. He’ll think you also like to eat soup with a fork. Bravo. Were you always that special? Pray tell. Maybe as a sand eating child you hit your peek and it’s just downhill from here.
While Oliver reflected upon his entire life staring at a spoon, his date arrived. A Punjabi young man wearing black. He smiled at Oliver and was walking straight ahead to meet him. He seemed confident, but appearances tend to be misleading. Not noticing a huge sphere of a person, he bumped into a pregnant lady coming in. He threw himself on the ground and kept apologizing while clutching at her feet. She released her feet from his grasp and just fucking left. Pregnant people have no time for bullshit. It’s hard enough for them not to pee their own undergarments, let alone deal with weirdos. This weirdo in particular recomposed himself and sat awkwardly in Oliver’s table right in front of him.
“Y-you must be Holiver”
“I’m so sorry, Olivier!”
“Yes, yes, of course. I’m Terrence. Sorry! I’m a pile of nervousness. Can’t do anything right”
“That’s okay, I’m als…”
“I am really sorry. I ruined it already, haven’t I? You came all the way here for nothing. I am nothing! Sorry!” – Terrence pleaded while Oliver stared in a blank expression.
Oliver absolutely, without a fucking doubt, hated being interrupted. He wasn’t one to get mad, he just shut down. Terrence kept going on and on about his mishaps, his unforgivable mistakes and flaws. Oliver just waited patiently until his date was out of breath and there was a chance to reply. Half an hour later, that moment arrived.
“And that’s why musicals helped me through my depression crisis” – Terrence concluded and gasped for air to continue his rant.
“I’ve had a pretty rough one” – calmly stated Oliver
“Depression crisis. The last one was awful. Terrible. I couldn’t stand the sight of anyone. I already live alone, because… you know. Gay black man, religious family. My house became a pigpen because I wouldn’t get out the bed to clean. The only thing that kept me pushing forward was my dog. If I didn’t feed her, she would’ve died. She was always there though. Even when I stopped taking her outside she wouldn’t bark or get mad at me. I knew she was hurting to see me that way, so I sought help. Just like musicals to you, my dog helped me through my depression crisis”
Oliver let all that out and expected Terrence to get up and leave. If not, he would just start talking about himself again. He understood why Terrence would need to express his hardships, Oliver himself needed that as well. He just waited, expecting nothing positive of this situation.
“Oh, that’s nice. Dogs are wonderful. Please, go on”
Oliver did go on. They discussed the difference between dog people and cat people, their families and whether Tyra Sanchez deserved that crown or not. Regardless, both of them agreed she was indeed the spawn of Satan. Terrence ordered a strawberry shortcake and offered Oliver some. The two men shared a piece of cake with a spoon.