Nicotina
By SteveI’m not sure how many of these things I’m going to post; this one in particular is sort of… underdeveloped. Maybe I’ll dig out some of my college stuff. That would be good for a few laughs.
The title for this came from some movie. I saw the name—it’s some Mexican movie I’ve never seen, nor do I know what it’s about… probably something to do with cigarettes—and the first sentence popped into my head. It also has nothing to do with the rest of the piece, so yeah… whatever.
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Nicotina
We call her Nicotina because she smokes so much. And when she fell into my lap, I was gone.
She was waiting on my table and slipped. “Sorry about that, hun,” is what she said. Her skin was dry and gray and her clothes smelled like a bar. Her eyes were bloodshot colored, and you could tell she bit her brittle, yellowed fingernails. She looked nearly 40, with small wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, but claimed she was 25. And I loved her.
Nicotina is waiting on my table tonight, and I watch her go about her business to pass the time. I look at my watch, an expensively inexpensive titanium number. Though the hand was slightly obscured by a large scratch, I was able to make out that I had about an hour to kill before I’m supposed to meet a girl named Alicia at a coffee shop downtown. Alicia is 34, tall and slim, beautiful, works in marketing, and enjoys outdoor activities like snowboarding, mountain biking, and hiking. She also likes working out, Sting, and light jazz.
For the purposes of securing this date, and the promise of securing sex afterwards, I like all of those things too. In fact, it’s uncanny how much we have in common. Thank God for Internet personals. Google too.
Since our actual face-to-face interaction will take place in the real world, there’s one minor problem: We actually share exactly nothing in common. It’s not just nothing nothing, but serious polar “not cute in that movie sort of attracting way” opposite nothingness. We have a black hole of commonality.
I’m picturing this conversation already:
“Alicia,” I’ll say.
“Tom,” she’ll say while trying to figure out why I look so much worse in person than I do in the altered photograph I e-mailed her. At this point, I’ll pat myself on the back for my Photoshop artistry.
“It’s… nice to meet you,” she’ll say as we sit down.
“It’s… nice to meet you too.”
“It’s always interesting to finally meet a person you’ve been chatting with.”
“Yeah, it really is.”
“Do you do this often?”
“I’m not much of a coffee kind of guy.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You asked if I went to coffee shops very often.”
“No,” she’ll say with an “are you an idiot?” tone. “I meant, do you go out a lot with people you meet online.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“You do this a lot?”
“Uh, no. I meant yeah, I was getting what you were saying.”
She’ll look at me and frown slightly. I get that look a lot.
“Anyway, no, I don’t do this often,” I’ll lie. Most of my human interaction occurs with people online. Assuming you consider typing messages back and forth real human interaction.
“Me neither,” she’ll say, while leaning in a little closer. I’ll smell her expensive perfume, and maybe catch a little bit of bra while trying not to look down her top but failing. “It’s a little creepy.”
“Yeah, I could be some total psycho.”
That probably won’t be the right thing to say.
“So, what do you do again?” she’ll ask, quickly leaning back.
“I’m a writer.”
“Oh… that’s interesting. What do you write about?”
“Mostly fiction.”
“Have you been published?”
“Not yet.”
“So,” she’ll look at her watch. “That pays the bills?”
“Not really. I do some editing on the side.”
“What kind of editing?”
“It’s for a magazine.”
“What kind of magazine?”
This is where the decision will have to be made about whether to tell the truth or lie in the hope of getting cheap sex.
“A computer magazine.”
The cat will be out of the bag.
“Computers and stuff, huh?” she’ll say, feigning interest while planning her exit strategy. “That’s interesting.”
Two minutes of awkward silence. Hopefully someone will get a drink or buy some sort of food product.
“So, what do you do when you’re not working?” she’ll ask.
“Uh, well, I write.”
“Well, yeah, obviously.”
“And I like to read.”
“Uh huh.”
“And I mess around on the Internet.”
“Right.”
“And play games.”
“Games?”
“Computer games.”
“On the Internet?”
“Sometimes. Mostly I play games solo at home. You see, there are tons of games just for playing by yourself.”
“I see.”
Another two minutes of awkward silence. Hopefully someone will consume the food product or drink purchased earlier.
“So, did you have anything in mind for tonight?” she’ll ask.
“Sex, mainly,” is what I’d be tempted to say.
“I have no idea,” I’ll actually say. “I generally make a habit of avoiding this sort of thing for just this reason.”
“What reason?”
Another two minutes of awkward silence.
“That reason.”
“Oh.”
At this point, we’ll both realize we made an awful mistake, wish each other luck in their future catastrophic blind Internet dates, and head home resigned to never, ever, do this again.
If this was Nicotina, it would be different. Our dates would be perfect. I’d even promise to give up half of my computer time for that woman. I’d never keep that promise, but she’d understand it as a symbolic gesture. And that’s why I love her.