Fifteen Minutes

I’m fifteen minutes early. I wish I could say that it’s because I’m excited or well-prepared, but, truthfully, I couldn’t sit in my apartment for a minute longer. The cafe around me is cute in a soulless, bleached way. Neon signs blare inane messages for the TikTok generation and fake plants limply sag down from beige wood shelves. It’s not my favorite place, but it was close to both of our apartments, and I didn’t have the nerve to give her options. I check my phone once again to confirm my parking is paid and order a black coffee. I don’t like coffee at all, but the waiter seemed annoyed to be there, and I didn’t want to be his final straw. My phone reads 2:45 pm, and I sit, waiting, panicking.

The joy of being an overthinker is that I already know what my problems are as they are happening. Every mistake, every misstep, every success, every failure, every everything that could befall me is running on a loop before I make a decision. I know the exit’s in a building and what I would do if a gunman charged inside. I know what boring people will say before they say it and I know exactly how I’ll respond. I’ve had a thousand arguments in my head with people that I’ve said maybe two words to in real life. Any talents I have are boring, and the ones I don’t are impossible to achieve. I know so much about myself and also, nothing at all. I’ve self-diagnosed myself with ADHD, depression, anxiety, mania, OCD, autism, psychopathy, and sociopathy without a single word spoken to a doctor. I worry about being emotionless despite the fact that I punched a wall after losing a video game and teared up while watching clips from musicals on YouTube. My life is an unending loop of anticipation, planning, fear, and retreat. Retreating is the easiest path. It only leads to regret, and regret is avoidable if you expect failure from the start. However, despite all of this, I still have hope. Hope that I’ll become normal, well-adjusted, or at bare minimum, medicated. That hope brought me to this cutesy cafe, in a neighborhood I can’t afford, to wait for a girl I’m sure won’t show up.

Unbelievably, I asked her out. In my opinion, I was possessed. By a demon, or a ghost, or by nanites injected with the last Google update. Cause that wasn’t me that day. I don’t talk to strangers, I don’t make plans, and I definitely don’t ask random girls out on a date. More importantly, they don’t say yes. That was the scariest thing of all. This full-grown adult had a conversation with me and decided that I was worthy of another one? That’s insane. It’s idiotic. It’s, honestly, a poor judgment of character. I’m not interesting enough to devote a morning to. She could’ve seen a movie, or a show, or had a drink with some other guy who’s funny and successful and has strong self-esteem. But she chose me, and now, I have to come up with some way to make it worth her time. If she shows up at all.

That’s the big question. What if she ghosts me, and if she does, would I be upset? It would certainly solve my worries. I wouldn’t have to flounder through the awkward introductions or wonder if she likes me. I wouldn’t have to try and make her laugh. I wouldn’t have to look at her ear to avoid making eye contact because that’s far too intimate for two people who just met. I wouldn’t have to picture us dating. I wouldn’t have to fall in love just to see her leave in a month, or a year. I wouldn’t have to hope and then see it trashed. I wouldn’t have to do any of that if she didn’t show up.

It’s now 2:50 pm and my second coffee has just hit the table. I don’t know what effect this will have on me, but I’m sure it’s bad. I have a habit of rambling without caffeine, and I don’t want to become a maniac, but I can’t stop drinking it. It occupies my hands and my brain. If I stuff my head with a billion thoughts, then I can’t hyperfixate on the one that scares me. I dig down deep and try to breathe. It’s just a date. With a human woman. I’ve talked to women before, and it went rather well. My mom and sister seem to like me. There was a barista that one time who smiled at me. What’s the worst that could happen?

Oh god.

Terrible question.

The worst question possible. It lights the fuse, and my brain explodes in a shower of terrible outcomes. She could laugh in my face at something I say. She could hit on the waiter the entire time. She could order an insane amount of stuff and walk out to leave me with the bill. She could take a look at me and realise that she’d forgotten her glasses that day and that I’m actually hideous to her, so she turns around and leaves. She could disagree with me on a topic so vehemently that she stands up and slaps me in the face. There are an unlimited number of terrible things that could happen, and they are all the worst. Most people’s embarrassing moments leave their brain. They learn from them, or tell their friends about it later, or cringe in the shower and move on. Mine don't. My embarrassments fester. They haunt me for hours on days when I have too much free time. They tell me I’m worthless and stupid, and they lock me inside my head.

I don’t have to go through that, though. I could just leave right now. It’s 2:55 pm and there’s still a chance she won’t see me. My heart is slamming against my chest. It wants out as badly as I do. Do I have time to pay the bill? The waiter is across the room, and there’s no time to flag him down. I could walk out without paying. People do it all the time in movies. How much could two coffees cost anyway? Would they report it? How could they find me? It’s not like I’d be back here. The waiter doesn’t need the extra couple of bucks. He’s not working at some chain store. I'm sure he gets plenty of tips; mine won’t be missed. That’s it. I’m doing it.

The front door creaks open, and I freeze, standing awkwardly next to my chair. She’s here. I try to look like a normal person, with mixed success. She sees me and smiles, waving as she walks over. She’s not disgusted, or angry, or annoyed to see that I showed up. I stick out my hand like it’s a business meeting and she laughs, taking it very overdramatically. I like her laugh. It’s easy, and bright, and real. We sit down and pick up our menus; she reads hers, I pretend to read mine. I’ve known what I want for fifteen minutes. Someone pulls open the shades to our left and the sunlight illuminates her eyes. They shimmer in the light like a fresh cup of coffee. They’re brown, but not just brown. They’re just brown in the way that an ocean is just blue. There’s a complexity to it, a depth. I need to stay. I know it could go badly, and I have no idea what I’ll say or do next. But for some reason she makes me want to try.