How Not To Be Kind.

You will have driven in rush-hour traffic, which you hate, and, despite your efforts, your leftover impatience will spill across his threshold. He will invite you into his apartment. He will have music playing, something consciously cool like Miles Davis or a French yé-yé singer-songwriter from the 60s. Sniff the air curiously. Ask what is cooking. He will reply, “Chicken broccoli fettuccini alfredo.” Raise your eyebrows, act impressed. Look around the apartment now and hide your surprise. He has never invited you over alone before. You had expected to see James or Saul or Cleo inside but it’s just him and a bowl of M&Ms. Decline the M&Ms. As the pasta cooks, he will make a move to sit down and then turn on his heel, hands in his pockets. Lean casually against the bookshelf, knowing your cashmere sweater clings in all the right places.

“Yeah, so, traffic looks bad,” he will chuckle, jabbing a thumb listlessly toward the windows, which look out over the freeway.

“It was,” say shortly, still testy from a Lexus that cut you off. Realize your anger is misplaced and say something too-nice to make up for it. “You look snappy today.”

And he will look snappy, too snappy. His slacks will have no lint on them and his haircut will form two right angles at his jawline.

“Thanks.”

Sit on the stool next to the coffee table, which will support a curated accumulation of books on Cuban architecture and creatures of the Marianas Trench and the collected photographs of Robert Capa. Note the awkwardness, not a foreign feeling when he is around, it must be admitted. Try to inject the air with casualness by, for instance, stretching out your legs, tossing your purse on the couch, or putting your hair into a messy ponytail. Prompt, “So what’s up today, in your life?”

“Nothin’ much,” he will reply, sounding to you like countless IM conversations you had in high school. He will try to be nonchalant, too. “Work was hell. This lady came in with about fifty thousand return items. I think she returned more clothes than we sold this week.” Laugh along with him about the horrors of retail. Then he will look into your face, take a deep breath, and say, “Actually,” and suddenly you will know without a doubt what he is about to say. Panic. You will have no idea what to say in return. Movie scenes that begin this way will flee your mind, taking their compassionate euphemisms with them. Feel pity mixed with impatience. Cross your legs. He will open his mouth to continue but then swear suddenly, rushing to the pot in the kitchen that is boiling over. Sniff the air again; detect smoke. Point this out to him. He will swear again and rescue the chicken from the oven.

The pasta will be overcooked and the chicken will be crusty with burned bits. He will apologize profusely, sweating, embarrassed. Assure him repeatedly that it tastes fine. Eat everything on your plate, even the burned chicken, in a silently saintly sort of way. Start wiping up the sauce on your plate with some bread as he clears his throat. Over the course of the dinner conversation, which, between apologies for and approval of the food, spanned topics including summer blockbusters, recent appalling fashion trends, and a debate about whether the Coronado Bridge was designed to float, you will have completely forgotten about what he had almost told you earlier. Your smile will instantly drop, but he will not notice, as he is staring at the wood grain of his table. Feel frustrated with him.

“So I’m really glad you could come over,” he will begin, rubbing one finger along his placemat. “I feel like you and I always have a good time together.” At this, his eyes will flick up to meet yours. Twitch a small smile. He will continue, “Look, I just want to be straightforward about this, I mean we’re both adults. I’m sure you’ve guessed my intentions by now.”

Intentions? Think about the past six months since you’ve met him. Remember that he gave you his seat on the first day of class when you were late. Remember that conversation you had with him at Saul’s house. Remember that time he picked you up from Jiffy Lube. Remember that he gave you a really nice scarf for Christmas, one you’ve been getting compliments for every time you wear it. Feel like a miserable human being.

“Actually,” begin, “I, um… I guess I didn’t pick up on it.” Hope this gets the message across. It won’t. He will be persistent in exactly the wrong way.

“You didn’t?” he will chortle. “Well, now you know. I wondered if — this is going to sound cheesy, but — could we go out to dinner sometime?” He will realize suddenly, after hours of rehearsing this to himself, how silly it sounds, asking a girl out to dinner over dinner. Smile in a slightly cruel way as he fumbles. “I mean, a nicer dinner, with maybe a show afterwards, you know, catch something downtown.”

“Like a date?” say flatly, wishing to pin it down on the wall.

“Y-yeah,” he will smile, relieved that you have finally gotten the message.

Consider your two choices. You could (A) decline from the get-go. Nicely, of course. Just tell him you don’t think of him that way and don’t want to lead him on. This might be kinder, except he has just made you a nice dinner, and then there is that lovely scarf. Or (B) you could accept, go out on this one date, keep everyone’s hands to themselves, and decline a second date, vaguely but firmly. This might seem kinder, but it would get his hopes up, and you would feel like a dirty liar all night long. Which option would your mutual friends be angrier about? (A), probably.

Say, after a few tense seconds of debating this with yourself without attaching word tags to any of it, “Well, okay, why not.” Try to be as politely unenthused as possible. “It sounds fun.” Smile warmly, with effort.

In his eyes, you are bashfully pleased. In his eyes, this is the beginning of a story he will tell years later, roaring with laughter about the pasta and the chicken. In fact, it will be the beginning of a story he will tell Saul and Cleo two weeks later, his hands over his face and their hands on his shoulders.

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The style of this story was inspired by author Lorrie Moore, whose collection of short stories, Self-Help, is sitting on my bedside table. Don’t forget to read the FFFs of Caiti, Gabe, & Crow! We all wrote on the same theme. Can you guess what it was?