Missed Connections

By Jameson Grem

She sits on a stool at the coffee bar. Her large headphones, clamped tight over her ears, push back fiery red curls from her face. It may flatten them out for the rest of the day, but she doesn’t care anymore. She had paid special attention to her hair this morning to make it voluminous and shaped so that it flatters her round face. All that effort had been spent on an early afternoon Tinder date -- another disappointment. Now she is long lost in the tangled mess of her work email as she stares intently at her computer screen on this dreary Sunday evening. But occasionally, inevitably, she pokes her head out of the fray and tabs over to her Match profile. Disillusionment creeps in along the edges of that worn out hope. Her faded red lipstick matches her frustration well. She doesn’t notice that the concerned, concentrated frown on her face makes her look older and less appealing; and that when she relaxes her face, she looks rather cute. But if she did know, she wouldn’t care about that either; she knows we can’t all be on all the time. Besides, there’s no one at this coffee bar she could be interested in anyway. 

He sits on a stool at the coffee bar. His large headphones, clamped tight over his ears, don’t really bother his dark, close-cropped hair. He didn’t get the haircut to compliment his round face; he’s been getting the same cut for years. Hair isn’t very important anyway, not if you asked him. Early this afternoon, he rolled out of bed and thought he might as well go somewhere today and be around actual people. He sometimes wished his online friends counted, for he’d just spent all last night with them, fighting imaginary battles on the computer he’d built. But his online friends cannot be there with him. He has no one, and he feels it acutely whenever he is home. He wishes he had someone. He wishes he’d ever had anyone. But he’d never had the confidence, not after his youth spent being bullied for his weight. He wishes he were one of those stories on Facebook, where a man was inspired to lose a bunch of weight because of his adversaries, and now he’s surrounded by hot women and is also, somehow, a millionaire. But he is a gentle, passive person and floats through life as such. He stares intently at his computer screen, at the commentary running through Discord. More gamer friends. He noticed the beautiful redhead sitting beside him long ago, but hasn’t worked up the courage to say ‘Hello’. She looks busy. He doesn’t want to bother her. He shares his admiration of and compliments to her with the chatroom instead. 

After a time, she removes her headphones, and finishes up a few last emails. Her curls have certainly flattened a little. He has noticed. He thinks she is perfectly charming. He likes the crease between her brown and the unhappy pout her lips form as she concentrates. But he only dares steal quick glances out of the corner of his eye. He is suddenly conscious of his beard’s valiant, yet ill-fated attempt to grow in and wishes he’d shaved this morning--er, afternoon. She begins to pack her things into her backpack. First her laptop. Then her large headphones. She shrugs her coat on, perches her sunglasses atop her head, and tucks away a notebook into her pocket. She checks her phone one last time and then goes to the bathroom. 

He has one more chance. He steels himself, waits for her to return from the bathroom and walk past him towards the door. When she does, she walks past him briskly without a second look, bracing herself for the cold. She has not noticed him even a little bit during her entire stay. She doesn’t realize he has the capacity to love her adoringly, generously, equally until the day he dies. Still, he says nothing. And as the door closes behind her, he feels the bitter disappointment of his own inaction and, mentally kicking himself, gets back to his online chat. Maybe next time. Hopefully there is a next time.