Low Stakes

My leg was bouncing so quickly you could hear the soles of my black Vans and the wooden floor squawking in protest. I wondered if I looked alright for a—what had he called it?—“low stakes first date,” whatever that meant. I was wearing a short-sleeved button-up, with green and yellow flowers on a white background, and a pair of black jeans. I’d left my hair messy; said he thought it was adorable at the club the other night. I picked up the small glass of water on the table and gulped it down.

Most first dates were dinner. Restaurants. Alcohol. A quick rut at someone’s apartment, and then nothing else. Coffee felt… domestic. Caring. Maybe low-stakes first dates were the way to go.

I liked this place he’d chosen. A little neighborhood coffee shop on a lazy corner. Pride flag flapping lazily in the soft breeze. The sun warmed the floors through big windows. A low table in the corner was surrounded by burlap bags that had once carried coffee beans but were now sewn together, stuffed with something soft, and used as chairs. Photographs of bears and bison on the walls had been manipulated in a style reminiscent of Andy Warhol, but far more conservative in the application. A framed note declared the exhibit available for purchase until the end of the month.

The churling sound of grinding beans and the sort of slursh of milk being frothed permeated the air, soft acoustic from the overhead speakers joining, and creating this symphony of sound that could only exist in a coffee shop. I sipped the water, hand rubbing against my leg. I looked down at it. It wasn’t bouncing. Huh. I’d only been here for ten minutes, and already I’d been lulled into the relaxed atmosphere of early morning grinds and sips.

“Aaron! Latte for Aaron!” rang out from the counter. I rose to get my order, a latte with organic, local whole milk, house-made caramel sauce, and a single origin coffee from Chiapas, Mexico—the young lady (kindly smile, dreads, and a smudge of yellow paint beneath her right eye) behind the counter insisted I knew all this—thanked me for my patience. She asked if I needed anything else, and I replied that I was just waiting on my date.

“Oh!” she squealed. “First date?” I nodded. “Excellent first date. Low stakes. Relaxing. Whoever invited you must be invested. Have fun, love!”

I smiled at her enthusiasm and something warmed in my chest. It could have been the first sip of coffee—best I’d ever had by the way—or it could have been Morgan walking through the door that very moment. I felt overdressed. He was in a peach tank top, teal shorts, and brown flip-flops. Muscled. Hairy. Backwards cap. Fucking sexy. He saw me, smiled, but approached the counter first.

“Sammy! How are ya, babe?” he greeted the young lady.

“I’m great. You’re still coming to the gallery tonight, right?” Morgan nodded at her. “Good. I won’t poison your coffee today. Usual?”

With a quick, “You know it,” Morgan plopped a twenty on the counter and turned to me, wide grin on his face, stretching the beard and blue eyes wide. “Hey, Aaron.”

“Hey,” I said, sipping my coffee.

He walked over to me, bumped my shoulder, exchanged smiles with Sammy, and asked, “What did you get?”

“Sammy insisted on a caramel latte. I couldn’t refuse. It’s delicious.” Sammy beamed. I must have distracted her with my praise because she sloshed a bit of espresso on the counter. She swore loudly, and laughter bubbled up from the few patrons in the coffee shop.

I heard squeaking on the floor. Turning my head to find the sound, I finally saw Morgan’s knee popping up and down. I reached my hand to his neck, massaged the back of it, and he made this little mewling sound. His knee stilled.

“Oh, that’s the spot. Damn, Aaron, you’re making me feel like a puppy.” I took my hand away. “Don’t stop yet.”

I laughed, returned to massaging until his coffee was ready—an Americano, no cream, no sugar—and we went to the table I’d chosen. Sitting, feet and knees knocking against each other as we settled, we fell into silence. It was a bit awkward, a bit comfortable, filled with sips of coffee and glances at each other and around the room. It was definitely a first date.

“So…” Morgan started after a few minutes, “How do you like the Bluejay Café?”

“It’s cute. Had no idea it was here. You live close?”

Morgan nodded. He explained he lived just two blocks down, and he’d been an everyday regular since the shop had first opened a couple of years ago. Said the café did all sorts of events—open mics, poetry slams, wine tastings, children’s music recitals—and pushed the community aspect that had been missing since the Catholic parishes had been reorganized.

“I know we had a ton of time to talk in the club the other night, what with all the music and bodies and noise, so what do you do?” he asked.

“For work?”

He smiled. “For anything.”

“Oh.” I started with my hobbies. Fantasy books, hikes, kayaking. The things I’d put in my Tinder bio. Told him I was lawyer. He asked if I did the criminal thing, and I immediately said no, that was too exciting for me. “Just contract law, kinda boring in the right way. What about you?”

He pointed out his aesthetic and explained, “I wanna start a company that does queer beach bum wear, especially for me. Everything in fashion is driven towards women first, and then the straight common denominator after. It’s frustrating trying to go shopping for something specific at the mall, and your choices are the same three or four brands for men, and then you see the fifteen different brands for women. It sounds weird, I know.”

“Yeah, yeah, poor Morgan, the sexist prick who just wants to look good but can never find anything,” called Sammy from the counter.

“Did you want to make this a threesome?” he called back. We laughed. After we sobered, he looked at me. “So…”

“So…?”

“Um… Well, Sammy has that gallery opening tonight—she’s a phenomenal artist by the way; works in oils, does this really abstract thing—and would you want to grab dinner with me and go? I promise I clean up well.” He lifted one hand with his second and third fingers twisted together while his other hand came to his heart. He really was like a puppy. I nodded, and he yipped—seriously, he yipped—and planted a kiss on my cheek.

We both kinda stared at each other a moment. That was unexpected but nice, his beard scratching in a way that turned me on. It should. We’d already fucked the other night (gay relationships have weird dynamics sometimes). I leaned over, kissed his cheek, and we blushed together. Two thirty-somethings acting like damn teenagers over kisses. What was the world coming to?

We finished our coffee, thanked Sammy—“I’m excited to see your gallery tonight,” I told her. She beamed. Did she ever do anything but smile?—and we stepped out the doors into the warm spring air. Morgan suggested we go for a walk around the neighborhood, keep chatting and whatnot. I agreed, but mentioned I had a lunch date with my mom at one.

“Already stepping out on me, eh?” he ribbed.

I knocked my shoulder against his. He hit a tree. Smacked his head on a branch. Laughed. Pushed me playfully back, and I rammed my thigh into a fire hydrant.

“Serves you right,” he quipped.

We quieted as we walked. There was an ease to this I hadn’t experienced in a long time, not since I’d left Hadley three years ago. Sure, I’d been with people, both on dates and in beds (and other places, like that time in the park…), but the tension between them and me had always felt insurmountable, as if I stood on one side of the Grand Canyon and they on the other. With Morgan, it felt more like we were in a canoe, letting the river take us to our destination rather than paddling towards it.

Morgan’s hand found mine. We curled our fingers together. “You got quiet on me.”

I hummed. “Thinking thoughts.”

“Is that what thinking is? Wild.”

I guffawed and grinned. “This… This feels easy. With you. I like it.”

“So… low-stakes first date was a success?”

“Well, you already got me to agree on a second date. The same day, I might add, so I’d say it’s a qualified yes.”

He stopped and tugged on my arm. I turned to look at him.

“I’m going to kiss you properly now,” he murmured.

“Are you?” He pulled me closer, arms around my waist. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, looking down at him. “How are you going to do that?”

“Like this.” His lips met mine, his beard scratching against my face. I melted. He mewled. I whined when he pulled away. He gave me another kiss, his hands pawing my back, gripping my shirt, cupping my ass. Yeah. This was nice. My alarm broke us apart.

“12:30. I have to go. Lunch. Mom.” I adjusted my jeans. Definitely did not want to go. “Time tonight? Place?”

“Eddie’s. 5:30. Corner of Lexington and Howell.”

I nodded, kissed him goodbye, scratched his beard (I was already in love with that part of him), and practically skipped back to my car parked at the café. Sammy was still inside. I waved to her. She gave me a quizzical look, then a thumb-up and a thumb-down. I grinned widely with two thumbs up, and she punched the air.

Yeah. I liked this café a lot.