3: some other time

“Do humans still meet organically?” my AI lover asked. It was something I pondered for a few days. I visited as many places as I could—libraries, museums, so many city parks. I tried to look cute each time, certain that my next lover would somehow spot me in the crowd and know that I was eternally and irrevocably his... Yeah, that didn’t work out.

Despite my inner protests, I finally said yes to a friend’s offer for a set up. Her friend was also freshly single and coming from a long-term relationship. You would be each other’s firsts. That should be comforting. I figured there were worse ways to meet men. And technically, we would be meeting outside the apps so I guess that’s still organic? Trust me, you’ll love Rich. Short for Richard. As opposed to, you know, the other nickname…

We decided to try the three cafés, each with its own quirks and flaws. The Java Junction, while having truly excellent pastries, had pretty awful acoustics. I doubt I could ever get to know anyone above the sound of silverware scraping on ceramic plates and the banging of the portafilter punctuated by the espresso machine’s incessant hissing. We stayed for an hour and a half, our throats strained from practically shouting. I left with a little bit of ringing in my left ear.

The Percolator would have been a good choice, except their coffee was quite awful. It was both bitter and bland, sour yet watered down—it must have been harder to screw up coffee that badly. I took two sips and set my cup down, never to pick it back up again. The croque monsieur was okay, probably not in my Top 3 but a commendable effort. The barista was a friendly yet homely girl who looked concerned at my now-cold coffee. She offered to top it up but I said no thank you. She smiled sheepishly and walked away.

Latte Love was the clear winner and I’m glad I saved the best for last. As soon as I arrived, I could tell this was the place to fall in love. The acoustics are great as soft music pipes through the speakers. Wafts of butter filter through from the kitchen, embracing each guest as they enter and make space. I spot an empty corner booth and set my things down before walking to the counter to place my order.

In front of me was a tall man who looked to be bursting out of his polo. His bulging muscles tested the very limits of the fabric and seams – it was almost comical if not slightly arousing. He looked uncomfortable and I wondered if it was because he wore such a tight shirt. Surely, it must have been that tight when he put it on this morning. Why bother putting it on if you’re just going to fidget all day?

I order a latte and a kouign-amann, just to be a little smug that I can confidently say kouign-amann. The crispy, caramelized layers glistened in the display box and I couldn’t resist. I take my tray and head back to my seat only to find that it is already occupied.

“Oh, sorry. Were you sitting here?” the burly man in the too-small shirt asked.

“Yes, that’s my messenger bag holding space for me. But that’s fine, I can move.”

“No, no. Please. Sit. We can share.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I’m waiting for someone. I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Okay, then I’ll move. You had dibs. I’m practically a squatter.” He smiled, a toothy grin that seemed very youthful and carefree. I almost stopped breathing.

“Thank you,” I say as he scoots across the seat to leave. He gets up a little too quickly. I try to move out of the way as fast as I could but my tray got caught in the way, spilling my coffee all over his too-tight shirt.

“HOT! HOT” he gasps. “SO HOT!”

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry.” I panic. I set the tray down and grab napkins from a nearby table. I do my best to pat it dry but all I do is spread the stain around. “I’m so sorry. So sorry!”

“I was gonna move away. You didn’t have to attack me.” I look up, mortified. Was he serious? I could feel his muscles through his wet shirt. This man probably spends half the week working out. I could feel his breath quicken as our eyes meet. His face, tense, eases up. “I’m kidding. It’s fine. I’ll live.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll pay for your dry cleaning. Give me your number and I can Gcash you.”

“You know,” he begins. “If you just wanted my number, you didn’t have to ruin a perfectly good shirt.” Muscles and wit. What an odd pairing.

“You mean the shirt that’s at least two sizes too small for you?”

“Hey, what can I say? It’s bulking season.” He flexes his arm, showing off his bulging biceps. I look away.

He lets up, brings both arms down.

“Sorry, not a fan I guess. How about this? You can make it up to me if you let me buy you another cup of coffee. Looks like half your cup is on my shirt while the other is soaking up your kouign-amann.” Hmm… he knows how to say it too.

“I would, except… I’m…”

“Waiting for someone,” he interrupts. “Got it. Some other time then?”

“Sure. Some other time.” He raises his pinky to me and it catches me off guard. He smiles, that disarming, goofy smile and I feel my guard coming down. I give him my pinky. He locks it into his, jerking it closer to his body. He winks at me and smiles once more. I swear I could feel my knees buckling.

He sits at the next table. I try to look elsewhere but he’s sat right across me and it would be even more suspicious if I cocked my head at an odd angle just to avoid him. He is blissfully unbothered by the large coffee stain on his crisp white shirt. If it were me, I would have gone home to change but he didn’t seem to care. The barista clears my tray. I ask if it’s no bother to get another set and she nods knowingly, a covert smile on her face. I hand her my credit card and she waves it away.

“No need,” she tells me. “That meet cute was payment enough. You don’t see that every day.” She walks back to the counter, smiling ear to ear, whistling a melody I would later recognize as You and I Both.

---

Rich, my date, is thirty minutes late. Stuck in traffic, he says, and though I’d usually be appalled to be kept waiting, I don’t actually mind being alone for a bit. It’ll allow me to cool down after that coffee debacle. I have a bit of my coffee and pastry. To say they are exquisite is an understatement. I could feel the butter dancing summersaults in on my tongue. The coffee is hot and alive as it washes it all down. My blood quickens.

At last, Rich arrives. He takes off his blazer as he sits and I can see the faintest shadow of a pit stain on his shirt. He must have run from the train station since the chances of him getting a Grab Car at this hour are next to none. He tells me it was mad at the MRT and an elderly man kept poking his butt. He finally elbowed him in the gut to stop.

“Oh no! What did he do?”

“Nothing. He knew why I did what I did.” He grabs my fork and stabs the pastry almost angrily. He shovels a piece into his mouth and keeps talking. “I was about ready to cause a scene.” I watch as the tender layers of bread and butter form vertical lines of mash and spit across his upper and lower teeth. I fight a grimace but it bubbles up and over. Realizing he’d overstepped, he sets the fork down and slinks back into his seat.

“Well… I’m glad you made it. Isn’t this such a nice spot?”

“It is. Where’d you find it again?” His eyes dart back and forth around the café and spotting an employee, he clicks his tongue and raises an arm. “Waiter! Waiter!”

“You order at the counter,” I say through my teeth. I hold his hand gently so he doesn’t get offended.

“Ugh. 10 points for Gryffindor,” he says, annoyingly. He swipes his wallet and makes his way to the counter.

The muscle man sits across from me at the next table. He is reading a book, or at least trying to. We lock eyes.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how you say that.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“The Gryffindor thing. Isn’t that when you do something good. Unless he’s Slytherin or something. I don’t know. I didn’t read the books.” I chuckle, but I halt abruptly. Jokes made at my date’s expense should not be funny.

Rich comes back with a strawberry milkshake and a dry biscotti. I often wondered about the types of people who would buy the stale sticks of bread by the counter. Now I know.

He slurps his milkshake loudly, then grimaces. “Ugh, these strawberries aren’t fresh.” He takes another sip. “Do you think I can get a refund?”

“Oh, how unfortunate,” I manage to say. What was he expecting? We’re hours away from Baguio City.

“Anyway, I’m here. And I’m sorry I’m late.”

“That’s okay.”

“I wouldn’t have missed today though. Like I would walk through the gates of hell to get here.”

“And why is that?”

“It’s… you know.” He grins knowingly.

“No, I don’t. What is it?”

“Oh, c’mon. You can drop the Maria Clara act. You know… it’s the third date.”

“And?” I’m genuinely confused.

“You know what happens on the third date…”

“I do?”

“You… you know…” He makes a hole with his left hand and stars poking it with his right index finger. Having not said the words must have made him feel he was being discreet but the actions were actually more vulgar. I brush it away and urge him to put his hands down.

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is. I saw it on Twitter. Or X. Whatever. It’s a thing. Why? Don’t you want to?”

“Not right now.” I was having such a lovely time until he arrived. I prayed desperately, to gods old and new, to be rescued.

He continues slurping his strawberry milkshake loudly and my brain is a mishmash of strawberries, and unwanted penises, and pit-stained Richard slurping, demanding sex.

And then it hits me.

Oh my god.

He’s Strawberry Dick.

“Stop being a prude. I know you’ve been single for some time now. I’m sure you need release too.” He continues, mock whispering. “I’ve been… saving up, you know. I haven’t jerked off in a week. It’s gonna be Mount Mayon all over your face.”

“Oh god.” I said, and I’m afraid he mistook that for arousal. I was absolutely aghast. I looked over to the muscle man, praying for salvation, but he wasn’t there. Someone, anyone… please get me out of here.

BLAM. A large object slams on the window beside me. In shock, I look up to find the muscle man with his hands cupped around his eyes scanning the area. He rushes through the entrance and grabs me by the hand.

“No time to explain. Your aunt’s been in an accident.” He looked almost as surprised as I felt, but his grip was steady as he yanked me to my feet “She needs you right now.”

“What?” Rich exclaims. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m his father’s… sister’s son’s… partner.” Witty, but shit at improv. I wonder if my date will buy it. “They told me to come get him.”

“You mean my… cousin’s boyfriend. Yes, of course.” I look over at Rich who is equal parts angry and confused. “I’m sorry, it can’t be helped.”

“No.” He barks, grabbing my other hand. “I’ll take you. If it’s an emergency, I might as well help. I’m first aid trained, you know.”

Muscle man lets go and my date drags me out of the restaurant. I barely have enough time to grab my things. He walks swiftly to the curb, hailing cabs that are obviously occupied. He looks like a toddler mid-tantrum, stomping and flailing at the curb.

From the left side, I hear the roar of a motorcycle. It’s one of those annoying hogs with large mufflers, so you know from a mile away when they’re approaching. Now I know what you’re thinking. Someone’s overcompensating, but wait. From a distance, I see it clearly. A large coffee stain on the driver’s crisp, white, too-small polo.

He stops right in front of me, hands me a helmet while popping up his visor. “Come with me if you want to live.”

Poor Rich looks at us, confused.

“If you want your aunt to live, I mean. Come with me if you want your aunt to live.” Not as eloquent as the first attempt but a worthy effort nonetheless.

This is crazy, right? I think to myself. But why can’t I stop smiling?

“I’m sorry!” I yell at my date, who looks small and sad as we drive away. I wrap my arms around my hero’s waist as we swerve in and out of heavy traffic to safety. Normally, motorcycles terrify me, and if I’d been thinking straight, I’d have jumped off this gaudy machine immediately. But I don’t know—something about this chaotic energy feels oddly comforting – at least compared to Strawberry Dick’s Third Date.

I couldn’t deny the attraction. Even the barista saw something in that moment that I couldn’t. In the middle of all this mess, I felt safe with my arms around him as we wove in and out of lanes.

“Francis!” he yells. “My name’s Francis.”

“Stephen,” I say. It is hard to talk through the speed. “With a P-H, not an F.” I’m not sure why that matters but in the moment, it felt important.

“Do you know what time it is?” Francis yelled over the wind.  I tug my arm free to check the time. He yanks it back, refusing to let go.

“Not without my watch, I don’t!”

“It’s ‘some other time’!” he says and I can hear the smile in his voice. The city lights blur into streaks of gold and red as we scream through the streets. I have never felt more alive.

---

We arrive at my building. The motorcycle rumbles softly beneath him, its low growl vibrating through the still night as he kicks down the stand. I take off my helmet and hand it back to him. He cradles it firmly between his thighs.

“Thank you for the rescue,” I say, my cheeks aflush.

“You’re always welcome. Oh and next time? I take payment in coffee.” He flips his visor down with a practiced flick, revs the engine once—loud enough to make me jump—and disappears into the night.

The roar of his motorcycle fades, but I’m still standing there, helmet hair and all, trying to piece together what just happened. Who was this guy? And why, for the first time in years, do I feel like something just... started?

What. The actual fuck. Just happened?

♫: boygenius | Cool About It (2023)