You First: A Joe Goldberg Prequel (You, #0)(10)
You are bursting with fruit flavors, with words. That’s what you are, a pack of gum. Fruit Stripe that I used to count as lunch, and I like you, Vail. I like you. Your mouth that moves so fast and your exposed, weak knees. I get it, the nerves. I changed sweaters four times before I left my cardboard box, but there are some things girls can say that boys just fucking can’t. “Well, you look lovely, Vail.”
Lovely was the wrong word. I can feel you clock it and stow it in your giant busy-girl bag. “Thank you, Joe. And fuck me and my blabbing.”
You said fuck me, and I stash that in my invisible bag. It’s early, but it’s clear. We’re clicking. Open and yet shy all at once, as if we’re surprised by ourselves, by our chemistry. I touch your elbow. “See, this is why people go to the movies,” I say. “Because we have to keep our traps shut once we’re inside.”
You blow a little strand of hair out of your mouth. You say that’s a good point—you think I’m smart—and I never knew that I had that opinion about the classic movie date until now, until you. You shift gears. “Speaking of movies, did you ever see Annie Hall?”
Your voice is high. The alchemy is getting to you too. I laugh and say yes. “I mean, I’m a fucking New Yorker.”
“Mm-hmm.”
You say this like it’s a code, and it’s my first real date. I do what feels natural. I do you. “Mm-hmm.”
“Okay,” you say. Yet another lick of the lips, and are you blushing? “Do you know that part where they…” You shake your little head, hair blown out for me, combed for me. “Never mind…. I can’t.”
“Sure you can, Vail. It’s okay.”
It feels good to say your name, to imagine it coming out of my mouth every day. Big bad thought, too much, too soon. Down, Portnoy. Chill. Your cell phone rings. It’s work, you have to take it, and it’s fancy, Motorola. You are sweet and sorry, talking by the fire hydrant, looking at me, promising one more minute. I am the good guy, patient. I like the way you check in with me. You’re kind. You care. I could get used to this. I am fucking used to it, and you’re back.
“Okay, hi.”
“Hi.”
And then we are quiet. I read about this kinda stuff, about “love.” Time slows down, the planet dies, and we’re the last two left on the sidewalk, in the world. I hear the opening lines of that song from Shag, that movie at that birthday party, in the dark, in Kelly Fuentes’s basement, the first time a girl touched my Portnoy. Touch me…. Love the way you touch me. You sneeze, and the music dies, which is good. It’s too soon. I can’t jump off the bridge into you just fucking yet. You’re a girl, you have a tissue. You dab your nose. A button that’s a little too large for your face, probably the reason why you draw black circles around your eyes. You don’t know that you’re perfect as you are, but soon enough, I will show you.
“Okay,” you say. “So, Annie Hall.”
“Annie Hall.”
“You know that scene when they’re on their way into the diner and he says they should kiss before they eat so they can digest their food?”
I really am Romeo in black jeans and I’m a cool cat…tapping on the toe with a new hat. Collected. “I think I remember it….”
Your eyes come at me, two little Polaroid cameras, and fuck yes, Vail. Capture me, expose me. I want this, you. You bite your lip in a deliberate, slow-motion music video kind of way. It’s happening right here, right now, on Houston and Fucking Mercer. I take your hand, or you take mine—the blur is real—and you give me your lips. It’s a fit, a good match, and your fingers work my hand, and your body melts below my other hand. This is my life turning around in real time. My eyes are closed but already we are the world and undoubtedly others are watching, vowing to get what we have. I deserve a girl like you. An X who marks the spot, quivering when I find the small of your back, and is that your tongue? It is. I put my message in a bottle, my tongue in your mouth, two lovestruck whales humping in a deep blue sea.
You pull back and squeeze my hand before you drop it. “Well, hello, Mr. Tongue.”
The CD skips. Scratched. Well, hello, Mr. Tongue. You recede like a fucking tide and wait. What just happened? You started it. You brought your tongue into it, and I was only bringing mine to be polite. You fidget with your skirt and your messenger bag…. Did I imagine it? Did I just give you unwanted fucking tongue? Did I kill the whales?
You snatch the tickets and slap my chest with them. “So! Where do you live?”
Is this a test? “In the city.”
You don’t ask for specifics, and I don’t offer. I can’t. My tongue is MIA. “C’mon,” you say. “I live for the coming attractions.”
I follow you up the stairs, and it’s wrong, all wrong. Fuck you, Mr. Tongue. Fuck you, Woody Allen. You grab onto the door with the same eager beaver gusto you had when you grabbed onto the tickets, and you screech, “After you, sir.”
I’m the man. I’m supposed to ask the questions, to get the door. Inside, you are casual and clucking, turning every tiny, quotidian transaction with every employee into an inter-fucking-action. Can’t even hand off the tickets to the usher without complimenting his vest. Mr. Tongue killed it, he did, and I have to fix things. Man up.