Manic Pixie Dream Girl
...of the Apocalypse.
Dear reader,
In August, a man behind a cafe counter wrote his name and number on the back of an order slip and passed it to me. Chatting briefly while I waited for my grain bowl, we acknowledged each other’s familiarity. “I’ve seen you around before,” I said. “Call me,” he said with a smile.
I kept my cool until I was outside, and out of view. Under a cloudless blue sky, I skipped giddily along the sidewalk on my way back to work. This was the first attention from a man I had received, let alone wanted, since breaking up with T., and I was elated.
The next day, after a few friendly texts back and forth, I invited him to come by the studio after his shift. By that point, ROCK SHOP was finished and furnished, but I still hadn’t started letting people in. Though I longed to feel at ease sharing the space with others, I hadn’t gotten over a shyness that made me want to hide in the bathroom every time someone walked by.
Cafe Guy was a good excuse to rip the bandaid off. I knew I was never going feel ready to be in the presence of a stranger while they give me—and everything I make—a once-over. I reassured myself that one day I would feel proud of the space, but that it would happen in tiny increments.
Admittedly, opening the door for an available, single man with romantic potential felt like skipping ahead into a hard launch. I hadn’t even practiced talking about the studio without mentioning my history with T. But Cafe Guy was cute, and so into the deep end I went.