I Can Break Your Barriers

"You actually only swirl it once," I say to him after he spins his glass for the fourth time. I say it lightly, not wanting to come off preachy. He doesn't say anything and maintains direct eye contact, not signaling for me to continue but as a sort of pride thing; as if no reaction was more manly than an embarrassed one. I continue anyway, "one counter-clockwise swirl before your first sip," I explain as I spin the glass in one swift motion, "aerates it just enough to bring out the wine's aromas". I waft the glass of Merlot, closing my eyes to soak it in and then finish with a chef's kiss. His eyes grin. "That was cute," he says. My eyes grin back. "Excuse me," I get up and head towards the restroom, only to stop mid-way because I realize he's following close behind. "Don't leave yet," he says softly, "does my breath smell or something?". He seemed like a little boy trapped in a 6'2" body. It's precious and kind of off-putting at the same time. "Antony, I'm just going to the bathroom," I respond pointing to the restroom sign. "Oh my god, I'm actually retarted," he says with a small head shake. The couple by him looks over angrily. "You know, I actually grew up with a mentally retarted brother, you should really watch wha-", the woman starts. "You are absolutely right ma'am, uncalled for," he cuts in as he nods politetly at her and then fast-walks back to our table. I head inside the handicap stall, leaning over the sink with my hands gripping the sides and let out a breath. He's weird, I think. But is also so normal. If he was a painting, it'd be ordinary, one we've seen before but it wouldn't hang quite right. It'd dip just a smidge too much on the left. When I approach the table again, he is showing the waiter pictures on his phone. "The original Basquiat sold for hundreds of millions," he tells the waiter; "Come," he cuts in motioning me to my chair. "When I remix it, I paint with new colors, switch up the proportions, the entire composition. It's like an abstract-abstract". The waiter laughs and claps him on the shoulder, "I like yours better!". I look at Antony who seems happy at the compliment and that I'm back. "That's crazy, I didn't know you were a painter. I was literally just thinking about paintings," I tell him. "Sounds like we're meant to be," he says. "We just met Antony," I say. "I know," he says with certainty, "that's why I made the joke". So my trust issues and over-questioning have entered, knew they'd come sooner than later. "Of course sorry, guess the wine's kicking in," I say with a half-smile. "You're weird," he says and smiles back warmly. The rest of the dinner is nice. We make good conversation. Sprinkles of small talk. I tell him about my job as an on-call paramedic, who specializes in talking down suicide attemptees. I start to open up about countless stories, the mom of twin boys I coaxed off the ledge of her penthouse. The modern Romeo and Juliette I had to stop from jumping from a bridge. He hangs to every word, invested but barely taken aback, as if he had the same career before. As we converse, the whole restaurant fades away in the background; it feels like we're the only ones until we are. When I go to pour another glass of wine, he stops me and lips the words no more. "Just letting you guys know, we close in ten minutes," the manager informs us. We both look at each other with wide eyes. "But no rush. Let me guess," the manager throws his hip to the side sassily, "anniversary dinner?" he asks. "Mhm, it's our two hours, so it's getting pretty serious," I say with a head nod. "Do we get a free cake?" Antony chimes in. The manager rolls his eyes and laughs. "Oh, in that case, hurry up!" he says while clapping his hands. Chop, chop. We laugh again, starting to clean our area and stack our dishes for the waiter. He leaves a hundred-dollar bill on the table and scoots out. "Cash?" I ask. "Painter and a stripper?". He hands me his coat as I rub my hands across my goose-bumped arms. "No I paint full-time, my clients usually pay me in cash. Deposit for materials and the rest when the art is delivered." "Fair," I respond, beeping my keys to see where my car is parked. I almost always forget. I was diagnosed with ADHD in high school; even popping into Target for a few minutes meant seventy new trains of thought inside the store, which completely replace the car location one. "I think we know where your car is by now," Antony interrupts my thoughts. I had almost forgotten he was there. "You've beeped about a hundred times. Leave your car here. I'll get us an Uber back, I don't want you driving. I'll send one to bring you back here tomorrow too." He's already searching for one on his phone before I respond. I hadn't had much wine, but I guess it is better to play it safe. He asks me to type in my address and I do, nervously. I bite at the nails of my empty hand. His phone rings a few times as "Mom" flashes across the screen and I hand it to him quickly. "Hey Mom," he says nonchalantly. "Yeah no tell him I can help out Wednesday night, I'm busy right now. Ok. Te quiero,". I hadn't even realized he was Hispanic until he said that. He had bright green eyes, no accent, and skin so pale it was almost translucent. "What," he catches on, "you know I'm from Miami, shouldn't surprise you." During the Uber ride back, he is consistently texting his mother. I usually mind my own business, but my curiosity gets the best of me. In my periphery, his phone screen reflects in the window; so I can look without looking.

Mom: Okay. Just let me know.

Antony: I understand. I have some leftover bread for you btw. I'll be back soon.

Mom: Ok. Perfecto.

So, a normal conversation. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't that. I found it sort of bizarre how often this grown man seemed to talk to his mom. And because I don't have a filter, I speak up. "Your Mom again?". "Yeah," he answers. "You guys seem close," I start, "my parents forget I exist." He looks at me with sorrow in his eyes and it causes me to shift closer to the window by my side. "That's sad. Family is supposed to be a support system." The driver dials the music up a little, trying to not get involved. Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd fills the car. "I don't really mind... I'm an adult. I can handle myself." It comes out more defensively than I planned. "Okay," he says softly. The rest of the car ride is silent. When I get back to my studio apartment, I fall onto my bed and wrap myself tightly with my white duvet. I feel like a high school girl after a date with her crush. I'm someone who revels in being alone most of the time, and here I am itching to call him and ask him to stay the night. After the first date too. A blind one at that; it was supposed to be super casual. A few glasses of wine, small talk. Never see each other again. I flip on my smart t.v. and it turns on to a televised mass with a young and hip preacher. "A soul mate is not someone we choose, but someone God himself puts into our life. You will know when you know. You won't have to ask. A soul mate is your mirror-reflection, and every part of them will challenge every part of you. Until you have to grow. It's not supposed to be pretty." I turn it off, trying to fall asleep but get an hour in before sunlight leaks in to tell me it's a new day. It's 7 am. My phone dings with a notification and I push my bangs from my eyes for Face Id after it fails the first time.

"Rise and shine. Uber will be there in half an hour. Paid him a little extra to grab you Starbucks on the way. You have a good day."

I smile. And then quickly stop. Something feels off, but maybe it's normal to be treated nicely. I guess it's better than what I've been doing lately, cycling through men who switch between infatuation and commitment issues. Maybe that was what's off and this is just new. Maybe I deserve this. God, I pray, this is sweet, but I don't believe in soul mates. Where's the catch?