Thank God another first account love story from Lisa Gordon! Her stories are “goosebumps” good. (This one! *le sigh*) Check out more of her work here!

Story by: Lisa Gordon

A full head of dirty blonde hair, twisted as if by a tornado– you couldn’t so much as run your fingers through as you could grab hold of and pull. A beard, but soft. Eyes deep and dark as tunnels, framed by brooding eyebrows. A quintessential flannel, buttoned about halfway up, opened to reveal a t-shirt underneath: white, with a pocket, a bit of fray at the collar.

Do you know of a guy like this?

Works at a coffee shop, hefting large bags of coffee beans. Seemingly flexing as he rings up your latte. Tattoos on his forearms… but you don’t remember what they’re of: an anchor? The vague image of a woman’s body? A landscape? It doesn’t matter.

He lives in Oakland (or deep in the city) and hates his roommates. So he comes to you. It doesn’t matter where he’s from, but he doesn’t feel very Californian.

He plays in a band. Plays in four bands, sometimes…. depending on who needs him the most. Which bands are having a moment. Plays the drums, of course. He’s got that rhythm in him— that thing that keeps him moving to a beat you can’t hear, and neither can he, which is why he won’t stay. He’ll chase it, long after he kisses you for the last time.

But you won’t know when it’s the last time he’ll kiss you. Because every time he does you think that it might be.

Still sound like a guy you know or once knew?

If someone explained this person to me as someone they were dating, I’d think they were making it up. But then, I started dating one.

At first, I thought—he can’t exist. I thought—he was every bit the stereotype I’d seen, I’d heard about, a construct of our imagination. My friends in the background, warning me about dating in San Francisco. “Don’t get into one of those hipster types,” they’d say, laughing into their coffee mugs, their glasses of wine…. “Such a stereotype. Nothing but trouble.”

But I ask you this: In the moment, how can you not? The second you say, ‘I won’t’, you know you’re really saying: ‘I would if I had the chance.’

You think to yourself that dating in San Francisco… it’s not even dating. It’s something else entirely, and it’s terrible and it’s fabulous and if I get the chance, I’d take it, and I wouldn’t tell anyone the details because they might get jealous and I might be a little bit worried about them judging me for dating him.

You didn’t seek him out. It wasn’t intentional. You met him on {insert dating app}. You chat nonchalantly one evening, arrange to meet at a bar on a Thursday night in the Haight. But on Wednesday night, at El Rio with your friends, you see him walk in. Walk up to the bar, order a drink. You stare. “That’s my {insert dating app} date for tomorrow,” you say, and everyone stares like he’s an artifact in a museum. The conversation dulls to musings, then jokes rise to the surface. And out of nowhere, you take a swig of your friend’s drink (whiskey, neat) and go up to him. You don’t overthink it. It’s 10:12pm on a Wednesday and you’ve got nothing to lose. It’s not as if you’d put any stock in tomorrow’s date in the first place. Chances were, it wouldn’t have even happened.

You say, I think we’re supposed to meet tomorrow night. He looks you over. Maybe he remembers you. Maybe he doesn’t.

Yes, he says. I believe we are.

The patio at El Rio is glistening with a recent light rain and old Christmas lights. When he kisses you, you hope your friends aren’t watching. Then again, you don’t care if they are. You’re not thinking about anything except kissing this boy who turned out to be a real version of himself.

But you think you’ll never see him again. That you’ll think about him over your morning coffee now and again, from time to time…. when you want to, when you need to. You’ll tell yourself he’ll exist for that purpose only.

Except he didn’t. A month goes by, and then a year, and then a year and a half, and so on. Always at your house. Always once at a time. Always in between other people, other stretches of life experiences. Always after some time has gone by and you think, oh. Him. Or he thinks, oh. You.

And so it goes. And so it goes. And so it goes.

With that type.

Story by: Lisa Gordon
More Lisa Gordon VF Stories here.

About The Author

Lisa Gordon

Independent writer for The Violet Fog. || INFP

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