Natalie Weiss

I am trying to slow down this morning.

I ground some coffee beans. I boiled some water. I made French press coffee instead of automatic drip.

It’s not that it takes that much longer to make French press, but I know I will have to clean each part. I will have to toss the coffee grounds. I will have to spend a little more time with each part of the French press.

I could’ve made the coffee a little stronger, so that is disappointing. But it reminds me that I haven’t slowed down in a long time. Even with all of the time I have, I don’t slow down. I get up, usually later than I’d like, so then I chastise myself for sleeping in. I make drip coffee and a quick breakfast. I try to write. But I almost always feel rushed. And I can’t figure out why exactly.

But, for some reason, making French press coffee slows me down. I’m sure it reminds me of camping a little. And it’s a treat, using freshly ground beans instead of the Folgers that has been open in my cabinet for over a month. It’s a treat that I so rarely let myself indulge in, and I can’t figure out why.

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It’s September 2018. I have been thinking about asking out the work girl for months, really, but when I finally tell my best friend about my crush, it is only a matter of days before I find the courage. I have found that courageous acts breed courageous acts. It is a domino effect.

The ideal plan has always been to ask her in the backroom of the grocery store, by the cardboard baler. Romantic, I know. But it’s where we keep running into each other. Making a cardboard bale takes time, and it is easier with two people. I don’t know it each time she comes around, but she isn’t really supposed to help me make bales. It’s not really in her job description. She should be out on the sales floor, helping customers. But she’s helped me make bales a few times. Each time, I clam up and don’t know what to say. So we mostly make the bales in awkward silence.

On the night I finally do it, we end up talking to each other. A lot. I mean, at least relative to the brief sentences we usually exchange. I have kind of given up on the baler idea. Too many things would have to fall into place for that idea to work. She’d have to help me with a bale again. The backroom would have to be empty, save for us. And I’d have to be courageous.

The three of those things coinciding at one time seem unattainable.

We have kind of been joking around with each other all night. And there have been a few moments when I wanted to ask her out, but our manager has been around. I feel every opportunity that slips away like a slap in the face. I am guessing that this is another lost night, another day gone by that my courage has failed me.

But we walk into the backroom together one last time at the end of the night. And the baler is full. I could probably leave the job for someone else to do. But this opportunity may never come again.

She offers to help me make the bale. So we work together, pushing wires towards each other and weaving them together. We drop the bale onto a pallet. We push it outside. We return to the backroom and close up the garage door.

My heart is thumping. There’s no turning back after this. She’s queer, but that doesn’t mean that she likes me. And that doesn’t mean that she’s a good person. I think she is, but I don’t really know for sure. I don’t really know her. I have had to weigh the pros and cons of this moment in my head for months. If I ask her out, and she doesn’t reciprocate my feelings, she could spread the word about what I did. It could get back to friends who don’t know yet, coworkers who might think differently of me, family who might turn their backs on me.

But I have waited so long.

I am 25, and I have never been on a date. I’ve never even held hands with anyone. I tried to crush on boys back in middle school, and if they would’ve asked me out, I would’ve said yes. But they never did. And, for so many reasons, I never made dating a priority. I never thought it would happen to me. I never thought that this was a moment that would happen to me.

“So,” I say, rubbing my hands on my jeans.

She looks at me, her blue eyes piercing into mine, the brim of her hat pushed up just a bit.

Damn it, she’s cute.

I clear my throat. “I think I owe you a beer for helping me make so many bales,” I say. It’s a line I rehearsed in my head about five million times.

“Yeah?” she says.

I can’t read her. There’s not an automatic grin, or a sly smile, or anything else that suggests that she’s been waiting for this moment. And there’s nothing that suggests that she’s surprised by it either.

I am not out, not really. My two friends know, and that’s it. So it feels like my responsibility to ask her out. Even if she suspects. Even if she knows somehow. It’s a weird dance that queer people have to navigate.

“Yeah,” I say, and I wait for her answer.

“Ok,” she says. “Sounds good.”

She’s still kind of unreadable. I know she just said yes, but I’m dumb and I don’t follow up with a day and time to get said beer. She doesn’t either. Maybe she just said yes to make this less awkward.

I make it more awkward.

Our shifts are both over, so I follow her to the front of the store to clock out. She grabs a six pack of Gumballhead on our way. I follow her to the register. I mean, I still have to, like, get her phone number or something, right? Otherwise this was all for naught.

I wonder if she just thought I’d buy her some beer at the store, instead of take her out on a date for one. So I offer to pay for the beer. In front of the cashier and the bagger. I am not thinking straight at this point. Definitely not thinking straight.

She says she’s got it. I wait for her to pay, and then I walk out into the parking lot with her. She’s not running away from me, at least.

I don’t know how to do this. And I am so corny. And so nervous. So I basically ask her out again, as we stand together, a couple of feet between us, the parking lot lights bright against the night.

“So I owe you a beer, right?”

“Yeah,” she says.

“I should probably get your phone number or something.”

She pulls out her phone, and I give her my number. She calls my phone so that I have hers.

“Well,” she says, equal measures of hesitance and intrigue in her voice, “have a good night.” She walks away and gets in her truck.

I am buzzing. I can’t believe this just happened. I can’t believe I did it. Finally.

I can’t go home yet. If I go home, and my mom’s still up, she’s going to wonder why I am in such a good mood. Such a weird mood. And I can’t tell her why. But I have to tell someone.

I call my best friend and ask if I can stop by. She says yes.

We sit outside on her back deck, and I drink about a whole bottle of wine as I recount the night to her. This is also the first time I get drunk. A night of firsts.

It gets cold out, and we head down to the basement where her sisters are watching a TV show. One of the sisters is my other friend, the other person I am out to. I am also friends with the other sister, but I haven’t told her yet. She finds out when I slur, “I asked a girl out tonight,” a wide grin on my face.

“Really?” my friend says with a smile.

“Wait,” the other sister says, “you’re gay?”

“Yes,” I say. And then I reveal who it is I am crushing on, and how I asked her out, and I still can’t believe this night.

Even after everything that happens in the months after, even knowing everything that I know now, it is still one of my favorite nights.

And I think it always will be.