Nice to Meet You by Daniel Schutz Did she just ask me how I am? Of course she did. That's why she's looking at me. Wait, maybe I said something. Did I just say something? Oh shit. What did I say? No, I definitely did not say anything, thank God. But, was I thinking out loud? Goddammit! Did she hear what I was thinking? I mean, did I say what I was thinking and did she hear it? Should I just jab this mini drink umbrella thing through my eyes? No, no, that's crazy talk; use a straw. No, don't use a straw. Why am I always caught in these awkward silences? Why do I always have to shrug my shoulders and giggle like a Girl Scout? Pull yourself together, man. Be cool. Maintain. This is all you. Hit that shit. Take it slow. I should ask her how she's doing, tell her I've been watching her toes curl and wiggle every time she laughs, tell her I like her grape painted toenails, tell her I noticed how she traced her phone number on the bar for me while she was flirting with some other guy. Oh, she is a clever one. What a fox. What a clever and deceptive foxy thing she is. Ok, that's just stupid. My face is all sweaty I can feel it. I bet it looks like I fell into a vat of canola oil. I haven't even talked to her and I'm out of control. Don't tell her about how I noticed her toes. That's creepy. That's stalker talk. Do you want to be a stalker and prove the judge right? Huh, do you? No, no you don't. Mention her toes and you're a stalker for life. This is your time to shine. Say something snappy, tell her, "I've got rhythm, I've got music, and all I need is my girl," and then point at her and give her a thumbs up. Maybe add a wink. Okay, wow, I can't believe I thought that. That's probably my worst idea since glow in the dark dentures. I wonder what her name is. I guess I could ask her. No, that would sound desperate. Keep it smooth. Guess her name. Surprise her when you get it right or annoy her when you get it wrong. Either way, a response is guaranteed. There's no way I can lose. She looks like a Hannah. Yeah, I think Hannah sounds about right. HannahÉ HannahÉ Hannah Kaminsky. Maybe when Hannah and I get married and have kids we should name one of our daughters after her. I wonder if she's the marrying type. She looks like she would be. Don't think about that. I haven't even met her. Take it slow. Find out her shoe size. Take a drink from her straw. Then get married. Save the kiss for the ceremony. Don't want to come on too strong. Maybe I could invite her back to my place and play Truth or Dare. I could seduce her with promises of candy and funny stories. We could hold hands, have tickle fights, and cuddle while watching the snow patterns on my TV. After having our fill of infomercials and flashlight tag we'd fall asleep, out cold until the big bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream we couldn't finish gets tipped over by my cat and drips onto the sheets. Hannah would wake up with a gooey sludge on her legs and slap me awake to tell me I'm a pervert. Confused, I'd deny responsibility and ask what she's talking about. We'd both look around and discover the melted ice cream. She'd apologize for her harsh words and I'd try to lick up what's left of the ice cream. "Good news," I'd exclaim. "There's still a large frozen chunk at the end of the bed." She'd inform me that I was sucking on her toe and not a piece of ice cream. "How was I to know?" I'd ask. "You're both so sweet." And then I'd giggle my Girl Scout laugh and try to look endearing. My apology would be accepted and she'd remain calm until noticing ants crawling on the bed. "You're crazy," I'd say. "Those are just the chocolate chips." Once the chips start crawling on my arm, I'd agree with her ant theory and run to the bathroom, coming back with a massive can of Raid, ready to kill the crawling bastards. "Don't spray the sheets," she'd say, "that's where I sleep. Don't spray the pillow," she'd say, "that's where I put my head." Defeated at every turn, I would put the can down and compliment Hannah's pajamas, which are really a set of my own that I let her wear. They'd be long-sleeved flannels with a cloud and sheep pattern on them. I found them on sale in the maternity section of Target, but wouldn't tell her. I'd be wearing my Cowboys and Indians pajamas, which she wouldn't be so keen on, saying they're politically incorrect. I'd take the comment to mean she would also not appreciate the wooden rocking horse I keep in the closet. Hannah would ask me where to sleep now that the bed is covered in ants. I'd gallivant into the living room and plop on the couch. She wouldn't normally sleep on a couch, especially crammed next to someone else, but my boyish charms would be too powerful to resist. She'd also be excessively tired and unwilling to drive home. While on the couch, I'd scratch my chest, convinced the ants were crawling all over me. "Stop doing that," Hannah would say, "I put my head there." She'd nestle her head onto my chest, complain about how bony it is, and fall asleep shortly thereafter. There is no way that Hannah will turn me down if I tell her about this bitchin' future I have planned for us. What an ace in the hole this will be. What a lady-killer I am. I wonder what her favorite color is. I bet it's blue or red. Red seems about right, although her toenails are purple. Maybe purple is her favorite color and she always insisted that her ex-boyfriends get her purple Valentine's hearts instead of red ones. Those have to be hard to come by. Man, what a bitch. I bet she did ask them to do that. No wonder they dumped her. Or, maybe she dumped them. Is she the dumping type? Her heels are huge, nut crushers for sure. I feel sorry for the first guy she kissed. Probably punched him in the face. Poor guy. I bet she was in the sixth grade, playing Spin the Bottle at some kid's house. Someone like -- a Gary. Gary Shermer. She was in his room with a bunch of friends while Gary's parents were downstairs watching Wheel of Fortune. She heard his mom solve the puzzle. The answer was "Super Mario Brothers." Thoughts of Princess Toadstool floated through her head until Gary Shermer pressed his lips against hers. They felt warm and sticky, like a Fruit Roll Up left out in the sun. She froze and let him kiss her until Karen Wrigley, the girl with hairy legs, pulled her away from him. "Stop," she said, "I saw him eat a cricket once." Everyone in the room let out a collective, "Ewww, groooossss!" The next week at school, kids called her the Cricket Queen. Even later, when she was in high school, people made fun of her for kissing Gary "The Sherm" Shermer. That's a pretty sad story. There's no way it didn't happen like that. No way, no doubt in my mind. She keeps looking at me. Is there pineapple between my teeth? I knew I shouldn't have asked for that Mai Tai. Why order a drink if it comes with a slice of fruit? Hi, I'll have a Heineken and a slice of cantaloupe. Do you have any mangos? I love tropical fruit. I should be schmoozing and boozing right now, impressing her with my ability to name presidents and their favorite breed of dog. Don't be awkward. Smile and nod. I didn't say seizure. I said nod. Stop staring at the floor. No, not her toes again. Remember: toes are bad and eye contact is good. Stop the heavy breathing. Tuck in your shirt. Sit up straight. Be confident. Relax the shoulders. Smile. Open with a joke. Regale her with my knowledge of ladies' undergarments and haberdashery. Something like, "Oh, I see you're wearing the new Maidenform Demi Bra. You know, while Maidenform claims the rights to the bra's breast enhancing design, its chief rival, Barely There, was the one that actually engineered the thing way back in the early Nineties. Rumor has it a spy from Maidenfom, wearing the new Barely There Bra, seduced one of its designers and stole the plans. Take that into consideration the next time someone compliments your boobs." That'll never work. Subtlety is not my strong point. Go with something else. Compliment her hair or fashion sense. Tell her she makes zebra print and polka dots come together in a way you never thought possible. Ask her if she has any wax paper. You could whip out your comb and make a kazoo like Mr. Wizard. No, that's too corny. She'll never go for it. I wonder what slick words her ex-boyfriend used on her? Probably didn't have anything to do with a kazoo. He probably played a mean guitar or a piccolo, something exotic. Maybe she's with somebody now. But why would she look at me? Is it just the booze that's making her all smiles? Am I reading too much into this? Does she just want an extra napkin? Is the dude in the ugly rugby shirt her boyfriend? Why can't there be some kind of international symbol for being in a relationship, like an armband or streak of hair or some sort of a big red "T" for "Taken," Scarlet Letter style? Am I the only one that has these sorts of problems? Am I just not privy to the latest in dating signs and symbols? I think I saw something about this on Yahoo! Dating. Maybe it's better if I don't talk to her. Yeah, it's best not to get messed up in the whole dating scene. A relationship is just a countdown clock to a break up, anyway. Am I right or am I right? Sure, the fifty dollar, life-sized stuffed animal I gave my ex was a swell idea at the time, but then the power bill came and I realized I couldn't pay for the heat, so I had to un-gift the stuffed animal and use it as a blanket until around Valentine's Day. That's the reality of things. That's what people don't like to think about but know is true. I'm just keepin' it real. She should be thanking me, telling me how great it is that I didn't try to talk to her. I'm doing her a service and all she can do is flirt with some guy wearing a fake leather jacket. Fine. I'll just never talk to her, we'll never go out, we'll never break up, and we'll never have an awkward chance meeting at the market eight months down the line. I'll never be able to walk down the cereal aisle looking for a box of Corn Chex and she'll never come walking up the opposite end of the aisle looking for her Kashi cereal, the one I told her only health freaks eat. And I'll never push my cart so close to hers that the sides rub. And we'll never glance at each other for a second before averting our gazes back to the nutritional information of our respective boxes of cereal. And I will never stare at her, shrug my shoulders, let out a sigh, and continue to push my cart down the aisle. Not that the moment is momentous or anything, but it's bound to happen. It's just one of those relationship things, like the stealing of kitchen appliances. She totally looks like the kind of girl that would take my toaster. That thing can fit bagels and everything. They don't even come out burnt. It's a wonder appliance and there is no way some girl I met at a bar is going to take that away from me. I deserve evenly toasted bagels just like everyone else. I don't have to take this. I never liked her in the first place. I was just trying to be nice. The beer's worn off and her face has gone bad. That's it, no more of this sentimental nonsense, no more hearts of gold. Sometimes a guy has to put his foot down and it doesn't matter if the opponent is wearing nut-crushing heels. I have steel-toed loafers. That's right, steel-toed loafers. Maybe they're not Gucci with a huge garish buckle, but they're soft pliable leather with a decent sheen and no scuffmarks. Steel-toed loafers are a rare breed. Limited edition Dr. Marten's, in fact. If she can't see that, if she is too busy staring at her grape toenails, I shouldn't waste my time on her. Sure she's showing her toes, but is she showing any leg? No she's not because she's one of the lazy women who decide to just shave the ankle, but leave the rest of the leg pricklier than a cactus and hidden under pants. Well, I'm onto that little game. If she's not willing to put some effort into her appearance, I'm not going to put any effort into talking to her. Hairy legs and vague nods in my direction are not the stuff of strong communication. She's weak and indecisive with a fear of commitment. Why else would she paint her nails but not shave her legs? She's conflicted and needy. Head case for sure. If assholes in rugby shirts are her thing, she can keep on keepin' on. If she weren't making out with that fake leather jacket guy right now, I would so tell her off. I would so go up to her smooth-skinned face and delicate blue eyes and tell her, "Hey, I don't like you. Thanks to our confusing exchange of glances and head nods, I'm not going to talk to you. I'm not going to play my comb-kazoo for you. And I'm certainly not going to tell you how amazing your breasts look." Oh man, that's the stuff. She would be so shocked. That would put her in her place. I'm going to get out of here, hail a cab, and throw up in the back seat. I'm going to pump my fists. I'm going to eat a pound of raw meat. I'm going to go punch something hard. Ow! Not the bar, you idiot. Oh god, that hurts. I hope she didn't see that. Don't make a noise. Walk it off. Turn the pain into a dance move. That's it: Electric Slide yourself right out the door. Smile to the hot waitress on the way out. Did she just wink at me? I should try to talk to her... Daniel Schutz recently received an MFA in Creative Writing and is currently trying to put it to use. So far, he's used it as a bookmark and place mat. When not folding his degree into an origami crane, Daniel enjoys reading Italo Calvino and defending Modernism in all its forms. | home • fiction • feedback |

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