All that sentimental nonsense

Jack Hostrawser
Contributor
The rain had let up at some point during the show and the night was quiet but for the glaring of puddles and the electric hum of the fog. The two of them stopped by the thin metal sign and waited for the bus it prophesied. She leaned on a Chevy, not showing any concern for her coat. They made more small talk and he considered how the traffic almost vanished after the suits went home; cigarette butts slid down storm drains. The pink and orange neon light across the street shone nostalgically in every surface. This neighbourhood had only a few hundred permanent residents, she noted scientifically.
-That’s cool. I kind of like it because you have the whole world to yourself. I think it kind of looks like the end of the world.
-Everything makes you think of that.
-Not everything, he countered. I don’t think about it when I’m making toast.
She laughed. Too bad it was the first date; he had a cool line in his head now that would sound really romantic.
-You got class tomorrow? he asked instead.
-Yeah.
-What do you have?
-Synoptics, from one-thirty to forever.
-Sounds math-y.
-Nah, she said. We mostly just write poems about how great cold fronts are.
-Hey. I don’t diss your line of work.
-Yeah, that’s because I have one.
He pouted and she grinned, the way she did, like her eyes had hands with which to grab your soul by the necktie. He did not know why his soul had a necktie, but there it was. He did not know what to do next, though parts of his body had wagers. He tried to quiet the visceral infighting and focus on her, on her words, on the third song the band had played – the-one-about-the-riverboat-captain. He realized she might be rambling. Perhaps she was nervous like him. He would probably know if he had actually heard anything she’d said. He imagined interrupting her with a slow kiss, taking her by the arms so her eyes would pop open and then flutter into passionate embrace of his features. It sounded for all the world like the swell of strings. Too cheesy, she’d hate that. It was too soon, anyways. Don’t get ahead of yourself.Sirens sounded in his head and he realized she’d asked him a question. He tried to answer but he was caught.
-Shit. Look, I totally just blanked there, I’m sorry.
-Oh. It’s okay.
-No, really. I don’t know what that was about.
-Don’t worry, it’s fine.
She smiled and looked down, polishing the pavement with her shoe. He returned to the arguing voices inside and cracked skulls until at last he could think straight again, and then he tried something new. He kissed her and she kissed back and he noticed the distinct absence of fireworks and/or flourish—there wasn’t even any tongue. He had figured there would be tongue, although, in retrospect, now that they were embracing and trying their best to stare into each other’s eyes without laughing, it was an awkward notion. Pity, though.
She pulled away from him and leaned against the car, refilling the outline her coat had made on the rear passenger window. He spoke first.
-I’m going to be honest; I haven’t done all that much of this. So if that was bad…
-No… you were fine. That was good.
-I just wanted to be upfront about it.
-Yeah, no, I appreciate it. To be honest myself, I haven’t really done much of this either.
She looked at him again and was a stranger.
“Okay, well,” she said at last, “that’s my bus.” She pointed to the approaching Blue Night. He said something that might have made sense and smiled too much. The diesel engine ground into earshot and the ancient disks squealed. For whatever reason he touched her arm and she kissed him again. This time it was slightly less wooden – plastic, even – though still no tongue. When it ended the bus driver whistled sharply and she smiled like a breaking heart and stepped through the door. As the engine shunted the chassis forward and away, he watched casually, trying to see if she looked back.