For Me?

[AMERICONORMAN]

By Jose Gainza

Dancing, while getting me my cup of dark House brew; dancing to the music of rhythm and blues, was the lovely, black-haired, blue-eyed Lorenzo. By that time I had read that name off his name tag many weeks ago, in the first instant I saw him, and I believe it was the time of his first shifts at the coffee shop. Back then I witnessed his glowing beauty and my eyes immediately sought to know his name.

Today it was the first time he had ever danced for me. And I immediately wondered whether he had done so for others. I wondered how long he had done so. How long had this entertainment been going on? They were questions of jealousy, and I knew immediately vision of the spectacle of him dancing for another after me would be hard to bear. But that was just a short moment. I commanded myself to enjoy the watching of him. The enjoyment was easy. So he was dancing:

His tall lanky body slid to the coffee machine. One leg proudly stomped before the machine, and the other one followed soon as he dragged it elegantly.

And with an empty cup in hand, Lorenzo allowed his torso to tremble in unison with the electric guitar in the music around us.

Soon after he choreographed a twist to the floor, whilst his lips puckered up as if kissing the strings of the music; his head nodded side to side like a wave.

And then he shot up and began to pour my cup of House, though as he wiggled his buttocks to the rhythm of the strings.

Then he turned to me with a full cup. I believe that he noticed my wide grin, and my red cheeks. I believe that he knew that I enjoyed the show. It’s because next he made me feel that I was the only one in the room for him in that one moment of life.

Thus it wasn’t over. The strings of the music called him again. He tapped his way to that part of the bar where the barista makes those special Americanos. And he was looking at me, smiling. And then he marched to me with a rhythmic hop with each leg, to the register, a rhythm joyous and purposeful. At that point the strings were very happy. He twirled his fists together forward like a wheel.

Upon arrival, he spun around.

He did one quick tap combination and then dropped the needle. On his standing up at the end of that move, he simply said, “two dollars, Simon.” I gave him a five dollar bill and told him to keep the change.

I remember hearing benevolent laughter and giggles from the other patrons. Several looked in my direction. I was shy at their attention, but more so at the special attention from Lorenzo. I felt my cheeks blushing. I was speechless and I quietly went to sit down at a love seat, still embarrassed to look at him. Without looking, I knew he was still grinning at me—all proud that he had done something special for me.

And that was the question: why me? Why me and why today? Why didn’t he do it yesterday when I entered the shop with my friend, Tiago? And today he didn’t do it for anybody after me: a line of customers reached his alter at the register before we discussed the matter.

Was he trying to impress me? Was that dream coming true? I thought I would never pursue it, and now it seemed to be coming true, without any effort on my part. For an instant I allowed myself to imagine things that could be done in the privacy of the bathroom or in my shower. You must understand that a tall, slender, black-haired, blue-eyed, beauty-marked, smooth-skinned, young man, with a natural charisma, and affectionate nature, with intelligent, unafraid eyes—to have such a creature dance for me is a perfect way to get my attention—and to get me dreaming, as I can so easily do. Could it be that this sweet angel had a crush on me—I a vice grip to his heart?

My reverie was interrupted by a smiling barista named Ayn. She had what seemed to be a very rich chocolate brownie on a white plate in her hand.

“Simon,” she said, “the team here wants to wish you a happy birthday.” I was almost speechless but I immediately said, “How did you know, Ayn?”

“Lorenzo told me.”

I said, “thank-you,” and allowed her to walk back to the bar. I yelled across the room. “So Lorenzo, how did you know it was my birthday?”

He yelled back, seemingly angry, “you were broadcasting it all over the place yesterday, when you were he with the great, reliable Tiago.” And then he grinned. I knew then he was merely being playful by that. I shot up from my loveseat and went towards him.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“No, I’m just playing. I overheard some of you conversation with Tiago yesterday. You told him.”

“So that whole dancing episode was all for my birthday.”

“Yes.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because I like you.” He said it simply, so simply that it seemed very true.

“What?” I asked it as my heart began to race.

“I wanted to let you know that I like you,” he said it with calm and confidence, no longer smiling. “I know you like me. I have noticed the way you look at me. I see how you watch me work. I see how you watch me with the other customers. And that’s not a bad thing. I wanted to let you know that just because we can never have sex together, doesn’t mean that we can’t be friends. Or does it?”

“No. And besides, I would never insist on such a thing until the moment that I knew that I could take you.”

“Good.” His chuckle must have been directed at the notion that I could take.

“So why do you want to be my friend? What do you like about me?”

“For one thing; that you ask that question is what I like. It assumes that there is no unconditional love. I believe there isn’t … Perhaps the first thing I liked about you was when I heard you tell your friend Mikey that one can change one’s emotions—that the object is what inspires emotions—and when your evaluation of that object changes, so does the emotion … Or there was the time when you got up from you chair suddenly, when you were with your friend, Nathaniel, and you acted out the end of Patrick Henry’s Liberty or Death speech; I almost cried when you plunged the sword into your own heart.”

“Wow.” I said.

“Simon, there are so many reasons to like you—is this true?”

“Yes it is. And there’s one big reason to like you.”

“Have a wonderful birthday.”

I said it part in jest, part earnest, “Will you promise not to dance for anybody else for all of today, Lorenzo?”

“I really like to dance, though, Simon,” he was smirking. “Life is worth celebrating everyday. But I think I can keep the yoke on my feet just for today.”

“I myself would like to learn the tango, Lorenzo.”

“Me too. Actually, I have this kind of movie in my head, where these two old good friends and business partners—top executives—solve a major problem, burning the midnight oil. They are both expert tango dancers, along with their respective wives. When the emergency is finally solved, they dance a celebratory tango together. It is platonic.”

“That would make an interesting movie.” We grinned at each other silently for a long moment before I walked out of the coffee shop to enjoy my day.

THE END