The Clumsy Interloper

BLUE BOTTLE COFFEE CAFE (INTERIOR 9AM) He folded into a corner bench seat facing the corner of Montgomery and Pacific in San Francisco’s North Beach neighborhood. Using his black Tumi messenger bag as an armrest, he opened his slate grey Apple laptop and positioned his Black Cardamom Latte at optimal sipping distance.

The gourmet coffee shop was deceptively spartan with floor-to-ceiling blond paneling, ergonomic seating and a noticeably bare kitchen in one of the most expensive zip codes in America. With no artwork or signage, the Blue Bottle was engineered as a Scandinavian inspired dreamscape, synonymous with reality, that also served expensively favored coffee, miraculously enough.

Manicured center-parted amber hair tumbled neatly from beneath navy Bose headphones. The wispy shards, tossed with product, fell uniformly across on his forehead as if arranged by tweezer. Dark blue denim skinny jeans with rolled cuffs were folded into a figure four leg cross to prominently display his immaculately white Chuck Taylor’s and tube socks. He wore a white dress shirt with a navy Peter Millar diamond patterned jacket.

A thin smile crossed his lips as a flirtatious ping jumped to his attention on Microsoft Teams. Despite a $4,000/month apartment and an angular jaw, he had spent his mid-30’s revolving between Hinge dates and blind setups by well-meaning family and friends.

Dark circles under his eyes accentuated his navy-blue aesthetic. They were ocular reminders of a life spent clearing inboxes and churning out quarterly reports. He was not inclined to widen his aperture to include a long-term partner. Too many messy feelings there.

This girl in his chat column, however, was an old flame but now defined as a friend by social necessity and HR oversight. They split three years ago as both agreed to keep things professional, but he still quietly vibrated when she entered a room.

She asked, “What’s the going rate for a male escort to a Valkyries game tonight?”

He was careful not to reply with an emoji. She would give him endless shit for that.

“It depends, is dinner included in services rendered?” he quipped, maintaining a playfully but even tone.

“This would be for whole evening – dinner, Caitlin Clark humbling and nightcap at bar of my choice for… services rendered,” she teased.

He looked out the window at a row of eBikes queued and rental ready, each full of possibility and gamble, and produced a joyful exhalation.