[Thank you to @axeeglitter for donating the first image!]
God, isn’t my boyfriend Kevin hot?
Like, maybe TOO hot? I constantly worry he’s going to be stolen away from me by some jacked-up jock who’s more his speed. I don’t really get what he sees in me. Especially considering how much I see in him.
Like, look at how I’m looking at him right now.
This is how my face looks every time he’s in front of me. I can’t even focus on the totally Instagram-worthy coffee shop café thing he’s dragged me to. I couldn’t care less about coffee, really, but Kevin wanted to come (“they have coffee sommeliers that come right up to your table, Andrew,” he said, as if that wasn’t what regular waiters did at regular restaurants).
Anyway, I don’t know why I get so worked up about how hot he is. He adores me. He always tells me so. He doesn’t care that I don’t play basketball or go to the gym as much as he does. He says he likes having a respite from all of that when he comes home.
He says everyone at the gym is stupid and boring. He even called them “pretentious,” which made me laugh. You can’t be pretentious about macros. They’re not, like, fine art. But it’s just Kevin being Kevin. He just calls anything he hates “pretentious.”
That’s because what Kevin really hates is pretentious people. He hates when people put on airs and pretend to be cooler than they are.
That sure isn’t how I operate. And he loves me. He’s proven that time and again. So I gotta accept it. That’s what my therapist says.
And I believe every word of his constant “I love yous,” for so many reasons. Like, this schmoopy across-the-table gaze thing is a two-way street. If you could see the way he’s looking at me right now… Puppy dog eyes, I swear. He’s toying with my hand and picks it up to kiss it gently. This sweet gesture earns us a snort of derision from this jacked guy walking past our table.
He is exactly who I’ve always secretly feared is Kevin’s type. Expensive fitted clothes that are made to look like they’re off-the-rack. Tattoos that highlight how thick his neck is and how burly his bicep is. I hate him already.
He’s clearly about to say something, but Kevin shoots him a glare and says “keep walking, pal.”
And the guy does keep walking. If only every problem in life had such a simple solution.
As soon as my food shows up, I need to pee. I can’t explain how this always happens to me. But it’s like clockwork. While I’m peeing, I type a reply to my sister Julia’s latest text. It takes longer than I anticipated, and I eventually snap out of my phone trance, realizing that a few minutes have passed since I left our table.
I wash my hands and dry them in a rush, pushing the restroom door open with my hip and hurrying back to my seat…which is currently being occupied by a big, burly man. The guy who scoffed at us earlier. Douchebag stole my seat! I storm up to the table, preparing to eloquently tell him off, but - finding myself unprepared - all I can say is, “what the fuck?”
The stranger looks at me like I’m the dirt underneath his shoe.
“What’s up, little man?” he says in a casual voice laced with condescension.
“You’re in my seat,” I say though gritted teeth.
“No, I’m in my seat,” he says.
I change tacks and turn to my boyfriend. “Kevin, tell him that’s my seat.”
Kevin just shrugs and says, “He’s been sitting here the whole time, pal, I don’t know what to tell you.”
Is this some sort of prank? Is this some friend of Kevin’s from the gym that he got to help him mess with me or something? I start to say something else when I see Kevin rest his hand on the interloper’s thigh. He’s squeezing the bulky muscle and sliding his hand too close to his crotch for comfort. I don’t think Kevin would do that just to prank me. It’s too cruel.
“Jesus, Kevin,” I say, tears welling in my eyes. “Right in front of me? That’s rich. After all the times you said my worries were unfounded. That you loved me for me.”
“Why would I tell you I loved you?” Kevin asks. He has a quizzical expression that seems genuine, and I’m lost for words yet again.
“Yeah, you’re really not his type,” says the other guy, who needs to stay out of this.
“Of course I’m his type,” I spit out.
“No offense,” says Kevin, looking me up and down, “but you’re really not. Honestly, I’m sure a lot of guys dig your vibe, but it’s a bit pretentious for me. I much prefer my big oaf here.” He accompanies that last statement by grabbing the stranger’s shoulder and giving it an affectionate little rub with his thumb.
I feel like he’s just dumped a bucket of cold water on my head. “Pretentious? Pretentious? How can you call me pretentious when this guy is wearing designer sunglasses and has a neck tattoo?”
“It’s called style, man,” says the stranger.
“Shut up, I’m not talking to you,” I spit back.
“Hey, hey,” says Kevin. “Let’s not be rude to my boyfriend.”
Hearing him say the word “boyfriend” practically made my brain implode. I gaped at him mutely, like a fish who was just unexpectedly pulled from the water onto dry land.
I can feel tears pricking the corners of my eyes. “You told me you loved me not 12 minutes ago. Now you’re feeling up some other guy in front of me and calling me pretentious. What gives?”
Kevin narrows his eyes. “What aren’t you getting? I have no reason to love you. And why wouldn’t I call you pretentious? How else would you describe that outfit?”
My sweater? I look down, confused, only to see the thick woven fibers of my top blending together into a smooth texture. As the uniform green-blue color begins to turn mottled and patchy, fading into a design of autumn leaves, the collar droops, the opening getting looser and looser to reveal first my clavicle, and then my entire bare torso as the entire sweater splits in half down the front. Buttons sprout from one side and I hastily do them up, blushing, but not quite registering that my hands stop just halfway up, leaving half my hairless chest on display. A chest that looks a bit skinner, a bit more hollow than I remember.
I feel a breeze around my ankles and look down to see that my blue jeans have become baggy, tan capris that flutter around my knees. It looks like a garment that an extra in an Indiana Jones movie would wear.
I reach out hesitantly to touch the soft fabric, light glinting off a pair of chunky rings that now adorn my hand. I feel overwhelmed by the sudden shift in my clothes. I feel dizzy… I feel-
Kevin clears his throat and I realize I have been letting his question hang in the air.
“My outfit’s not pretentious,” I say, jerking my chin toward the stranger. “Like he said, it’s called style.”
“But what about your hair? Don’t tell me that’s not pretentious.”
My hair? What about my hair? I reach up to pat it and my fingers get tangled up as the strands start growing around them, flowing around my knuckles like a river current making way for a set of boulders. My hair extends down past my nose and past my chin, eventually settling atop my shoulders in wild waves that tickle my exposed neck.
The tickling increases as my clean-shaven face suddenly explodes with bristles. I untangle my fingers from my hair to poke at my cheeks in shock as prickly stubble gives way to patchy growth, eventually becoming a soft and downy beard that feels heavenly to touch. I do use a good conditioner, after all.
I grab a hair tie from around my wrist and do up my hair in a messy bun, then return to answering Kevin’s questions. I’m still angry with him, because of… Because of why again? Oh yeah, he called me pretentious.
“For your information, I happen to look hot like this. Haven’t you noticed?” I ask. “It’s not pretentious to want to look your best.”
“OK, sure,” said Kevin, “But it’s more about the way you think. The way you carry yourself. The way you think your opinion matters more than anybody else’s.”
That statement sends me reeling. Kevin knows everything about the way I think, and he knows I’m not like that. I would never… listen to the opinions of just anyone.
I mean, if I only watched what the mainstream watched, I’d have wasted my time watching those Transformers movies in high school instead of exploring New Queer Cinema classics. Was I better than my classmates because I was watching The Watermelon Woman and The Living End? Well, yes. Yes I was.
If I only listened to what the mainstream listened to, my lovely, beat-up, vintage record player would only ever be used to play the latest Taylor Swift releases. I shudder at the thought.
If I only drank what the mainstream drank, I’d be imbibing that burnt swill that Starbucks serves up on every street corner.
But still… pretentious? I open my mouth to speak again when the big guy cuts me off.
“OK, look…” he says, squinting squints at my name tag “Andrew, is it?”
“Actually, it’s Anders,” I say, rolling my eyes. People are always getting my name wrong. It annoys the shit out of me.
“Anders. Why are you standing here arguing with my boyfriend and I? Don’t you have something you should be doing?”
I briefly think that what I should be doing is correcting his grammar. It’s “my boyfriend and me.” But then I snap out of it. Of course I have something I should be doing.
“Yes, of course. Sorry about that, sir. Well, you indicated on your digital menu that you prefer more bitterness in your coffee, so I think you’re going to want to start with this new blend we just got in, using beans from South Africa. The soil there really…”
After my shift ends, I brew a cup of coffee just for myself, which is my favorite part of the day. In spite of my expertise as a coffee sommelier, people always chose the safe, boring options instead of the exuberant, rich beverage experiences that they could have had if they actually listened to me.
Like that couple earlier. The buff dude didn’t even smell the South African beans I recommended. He and his boyfriend just went for the regular Americano. And get this… they asked if we had milk for them to put into it. For crying out loud!
They called me pretentious, but that’s only because they wouldn’t know taste if it bit them on the ass. I shake my head and take another sip, letting the deliciously bitter taste wash the memory of those shitty customers away.
