#it was a beach situation. he was checking me out. i made shy little femme eye contact. dream moved on to other things

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girlies weve done it. im even makin butches stutter in my dreams now

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Nicotine Dreams

     Another day of making café americanos for the overly busy men that check their watches too often, and the wanna be Carrie Bradshaws with their high heels and good fortune. I didn’t mind working at this quirky coffee place when I first moved to the city. I was just pleased to set eyes on streets with people walking them. My home town had people too, but not anybody that would order a café americano. I had bigger dreams than home had for me, dreams of being an actress, but the city had all but squelched them. Auditions were plenty, but call backs were rare, and self-doubt became ever-present.

     I was itching for a cigarette and realized my most “loyal” customer and roommate, Abigail must be late again for her daily afternoon smoke and chai tea latte. I met Abigail not long after I got here, at one of those intensive yoga classes that neither of us had business signing up for. We became quick friends, and she convinced me to give up yoga and take up nicotine. Filthy habit, but my dad smokes them, so it reminds me of home. I clocked out, artfully made two overly sweet, overly caffeinated drinks, and made my way to our usual bench. 20 minutes late, like clockwork she rounds the corner, hard to miss with her oversized sunglasses and undersized clothing.

     I handed her the latte and she gave me a cancer stick and sat down. “Stop looking at me like that Elouise, I’m sorry I’m late I was having a very interesting conversation with the cute doorman regarding speed-dating.” I rolled my eyes and laughed, “You’ll find a shortcut to anything, don’t you have enough dates already?” She scoffed, “almost had one with the doorman, but he was talking about going to this speed dating thing for “young singles,” and we’re so going.” I choked on my drink, “Oh no don’t drag me into this one, it sounds anxietyprovoking and I wanted to order Chinese food tonight.” She raised one of her expertly tweezed eyebrows at me, “Come on El, they’re just 5-minute dates, and you need to get out more. You can’t always end up falling asleep reading “The Bell Jar” at the end of every night. How many times have you read that anyway?” I pulled at the collar on my coffee stained shirt and tried to think of a good comeback. Oh how predictable I have become. I remembered the unjaded, diamond eyed, whiskey drinking thing I was not seemingly long ago. The hopeless romantic in me has been carefully placed on the back shelf for safe keeping, she’s a little once bitten- twice shy. I laughed sheepishly, “You just want to talk to the doorman, don’t make this about me. I really should just stay home and run through lines, I have an audition coming up in a few days.” Her shoulders dropped a little, along with her smile, I hated the Abigail pout. I sighed, “Fine I’ll go, but I don’t see the point in a 5 minute date.” She nudged me on the shoulder with a french manicured talon and said “just practice your acting skills or something if you won’t take it seriously, become a different person every 5 minutes.” I put my cigarette out. That actually sounded like an interesting little exercise. I could explore different characters, voices, make it up as I go along, maybe even have some fun with it. Then I wouldn’t feel as demoralized when I get another no call back. I told her it actually sounded nice to think about being someone else right now, and she convinced me this speed dating experiment was a good idea.

     We shopped around town for awhile, Abigail had to find something to wear tonight, probably to impress the doorman. She tried to pick something out for me, but it lacked material and comfort. We went back to our yellow-painted apartment so that Abigail could sit in front of her ungodly mirror and “put on her face.” I was thinking about what faces I would be putting on tonight, playing with some ideas. I could channel my inner boss bitch, or femme fatale (that’s a laugh), or maybe a successful actress for a change. Stories of a thousand women filled my head as I helped Abigail recurl her bouncy locks. I went into my room and put on my cliché yet trusty little black dress that always stirred my confidence. I wore it in situations like this, and back when I drank more whiskey.

     Once she decided she’d been in front of the mirror long enough, accountably twenty minutes late, she turned to me and said, “we clean up good, you ready?” I twirled and flashed my biggest broadway smile, “Ready to be a skillful shapeshifter, if I can become a different person every 5 minutes, maybe I’ll become one that can land an audition.”

     “Elouise I was kidding about that, are you seriously going to lie to all these poor men?”      “I’ll be doing them a favor, will be some nice entertainment before they get to you, I’m trying to have fun with this, leave me alone.” We went down to the street level and the cute doorman was still working, he opened the door for us as Abigail looked back at him, winked and told him she’d see him tonight. I laughed out loud at her gumption and hailed a cab for us. We were sitting in the cab, weaving through traffic and I started to get a little nauseated. I was getting nervous but actually a little excited, the same way I feel before an audition. Abigail must’ve noticed, she poked me with her talon again and said “you know, you could just be yourself and actually try to connect with someone.” I thought about it, but I put the hopeless romantic back on her shelf. “Yeah but then there would be no men left for you,” I laughed and looked out the window, it was time to get out of my own head.

     We got out of the cab and walked up to a nice-ish restaurant where the hostess took us into a big room in the back. The room was dimly lit, slightly cold, and lined up with tables with two chairs. I realized I forgot a jacket as per usual, and decided I needed a drink to “warm me up” so to speak. I ordered a whiskey from the bar, and it was like seeing an old friend again. Abigail got some pink prissy drink and kept scanning the room for her doorman. A petite woman with a timer around her neck was making her way around handing out cards. The cards were for writing down your number if the date went well. Abigail grabbed a whole stack and I grabbed a few, and we sat down at tables beside each other. The woman with the timer introduced herself to the room and explained the rules which were simple. Five minute dates, ding ding ding the bell rings, the men will rotate, repeat. She told us to use our time wisely and remember to have fun. I accidentally laughed to myself, and proceeded to wait for my first suitor. For the first date, I was thinking I could be an investigator. Inquisitive, straight shooter, to the point. I took a deep breath, showtime.

     A man with thoroughly combed hair and really white ankles approached my table with a smile. He told me his name that left my head immediately out of nerves. I narrowed my eyes at him, “The name’s El, come here often?” Good one El. Real original. He seemed kind of puzzled, but answered with “uh no actually, I’m kind of new to this sorta thing.”

     “Are you sure about that, how new?” I raised my eyebrow at him like Abigail does. “Sorry, I’m used to questioning people, I’m a private investigator.” He turned white as a sheet and I could see him getting uncomfortable. I wondered if he believed me, I had great posture like an investigator would. He went on to nervously ramble about his boring job as a tree trimmer and his kid that had a piece of shit mother, but she went missing years ago and they never found her thankfully. My immediate thought was jeeze, did he kill her or something? I ran with it. I questioned him hard, keeping in character, about the kid’s mother and he seemed to be shaking in his boots. This was amusing, he thinks he’s on trial. I asked him burning questions about his supposed tree trimming job and then remembered I had to use my time wisely. “Did you kill her or not buddy?”

Ding ding ding

     Dammit. Right before the finale. He quick as spit made his way to the next table. Well that went well. I gave myself a generous six out of ten and looked over at Abigail. I gave her a thumbs up and she rolled her eyes at me then checked her lipstick in a pocket mirror.

     Onto the next El. This time I thought I’d be a “daddy’s money” type of girl. Big attitude, big bank account, little regard for honest work. I introduced myself to the next man loudly as “Miss El Sterling” who enjoys champagne brunches, country clubs, and long walks on the beach. I batted my eyelashes and held my head high. He told me his name was Bill and that he was an accountant, but I quickly changed the subject back to Miss El. I went on boasting about the summers spent in Europe and described the “bluest” waters and white buildings of Greece and looked off into the distance as if I could see them myself. I looked at him to see how he was fancying his date, and he might as well have had dollar signs in his eyes. He asked me what I did for a living.

Ding ding ding

     Done with round two. I didn’t learn much about Bill, he could barely get a word in. Miss El was so self-absorbed. But he did end up writing down his number, probably thinking he just found a sweet sugar mama deal. I kind of felt guilty, but I was also pretty proud of myself. I glanced at Abigail’s table and saw the doorman moseying up to her. I smirked, she was finally getting her date with the doorman. I was so distracted by Abigail’s table that I almost didn’t noticed the next date sit down in front of me. His hair was kind of messy and his shirt squeezed his shoulders, and he had a whiskey in his hand. I thought on my feet. I decided quickly on a confident yet struggling artist: Inspired. Quirky. Worldly. Romantic.

     “Good evening mister, I’m El, care to be my muse for five minutes?”

     I attempted a smolder and he attempted a smile, which came out a little goofy. He answered with “The name’s Mack. Great line, are you an artist or something?” I got into character. I talked with my hands a lot and told him nonsense about how water color is superior to acrylic, and I uniquely preferred Andy Warhol to Van Gogh. But he interrupted me with a laugh, “we only have five minutes, and you want to discuss water colors?” I froze and pushed my hair behind my ear. I continued with my creatively inspired yet odd childhood and how I would paint until my fingers bled, then chuckled and told him it made for nice finger paintings. He had a funny look on his face, but he laughed too, so I kept going. I described my money- hungry parents who made money off of my talents as a child, and auctioned off my beautiful paintings one by one almost as quick as they were painted. I was trying to get lost in the character but couldn’t help but to notice the way this man was looking at me, like he saw something behind me or something, and he hadn’t said a word since he complained about the water colors. There was an oddly charged moment of silence and he never took his eyes off of me, which made me squirm in my seat a little nervously and he just smiled again. Still goofy, but oddly comforting. Abigail’s laughter filled the silence and I broke the eye contact to look over and see her and the doorman playing footsies. These five minutes seemed the longest so far, but I for some reason dreaded the three dings.

     Ding ding ding

     I was expecting Mack to quickly shuffle over to the next table, but without a word he just wrote something down and slid it across the pristine tablecloth and left the room. The girl at the next table looked pissed, but I looked down at the card.

      Let’s get outta here. You look like you need a cigarette, and then you can tell me who you really are.