It's funny how quickly the strange become the mundane.
You get used to the patterns, no matter how bizarre they seem at first. I think we're trained to see patterns from a young age. I feel like we're all put into position to do so. To make sense of our world through repeated experiences. That's how we learn as children what we should and shouldn't do. That's how we adapt and how we flourish.
It's kind of amazing, if you think about it.
How easily we can get used to things.
It took a while to get used to him. To the idea of him. To how he showed up throughout my day, seemingly out of nowhere. It scared me a little, at first. Made me wary. But I slowly started to realize, we were just finding each other by chance. Our daily lives intersected. I saw his face and his chipper wave as I went by and I could feel the smile tug at my lips. It felt like we were closer, then. Like we were hanging out, even though we scarcely shared words.
When we did, it was by chance too. Meeting on the street, talking about work. Sometimes he had a sudden order that he remembered he was overdue to place. He'd never placed an order before, but it seemed like he was just too busy to remember to. It made sense. He was busy. He had a lot to keep track of. Maybe he always placed his orders through someone else. Maybe he was my best customer and I never knew. It didn't really matter, in the end.
I brought it with me and he met me along the way. He seemed to know which routes I would take before I even planned them and he found me before I had a chance to call him to meet up. He seemed disinterested in the parts when he took them, but he likely wasn't even the one that was going to use them. He didn't seem like that sort, anyway.
He always asked me the strangest questions. They were impulsive questions that seemed to not have any sort of rhyme or reason. I never saw him as very curious, but he grew moreso by the day. Weird things like what shampoo I used or whether or not I was having dinner. How was my Allmate, how was work, how was my grandmother. Things that shouldn't be strange but never seemed to follow any distinctive thought line. What album did I buy recently, have I been keeping up with this season's fashion, what kind of socks do I wear. I told him truthfully. I had no reason not to.
He walked alongside me as I went between deliveries, occasionally glancing at people or alleyways suspiciously. I thought maybe he was paranoid, or that he thought we were being followed. It finally got to me one day and I asked outright. He looked startled for a moment, but then smiled charmingly. It was nothing. Just business.
I got used to his errant glances and how he seemed to never be listening. I learned that he was always listening, even when he seemed like he wasn't. I would try to trick him and answer ridiculously sometimes, or throw in a nonsequitor that would surely prove he wasn't paying attention. He always caught it. He always teased me about it. He made me smile.
I got used to seeing him, which was something I didn't think I would ever say. I did, though. He started bringing me drinks when we met up, always ordering something he knew I would like. He was used to remembering what people liked, he said. I don't know how he ever found out in the first place, but he paid more attention to those sorts of things than I did. Maybe he'd even asked at some point. It didn't really matter.
Eventually, it was a drink and a snack. Then it was the suggestion of a meal. Before long, I stopped bothering to pack anything. Before long, I was eager to go on my deliveries. We never spoke on the phone or sent each other messages. He was just part of my routine, in his own slightly paranoid, overly curious way. We stopped at cafés and little shops sometimes. He started distracting me constantly while we talked. What do I think of this? How does that sound? Which thing would I prefer?
It was hard to keep on task. I got scolded a few times for being late, but it didn't matter. I was having fun. I was enjoying myself. Everything arrived safely, even when I was wandering into the parts of town I normally avoided. No one bothered us when we walked together. There was a reverence in their eyes, and a fear. I suppose that comes with the territory.
I used to think it would be weird or scary to be involved with that sort of thing. I used to keep my distance, to an extent. But it was fine. I don't know what I was so worried about. I knew he was a good person, and I knew that he liked me, so there was nothing to worry about. It was empowering.
He noticed that, actually. He commented. He saw that I wasn't nervous or wary of things like I had been. He said he liked it. I liked it too. I told him he had a good effect on me. He was happy.
So was I.
Before long, he asked me if I would join him for drinks after work. I don't drink, so I declined. That became a more regular question though. Not drinks, specifically, but going out somewhere. Doing something else. Staying together longer. He tried a dozen different ideas and venues. I always declined. He always smiled and said 'someday'.
Someday was sooner than I imagined.
'We're seeing each other, so I think a proper date would be best,' he said.
My heart fluttered when he did. We were seeing each other? When did that happen? The thought surprised me and I had stopped in my tracks. Once, twice, I ran it over in my head. Seeing each other? Date?
'What do you mean?' was all I managed.
He was right, of course. Once he explained it, it all made sense. We'd been dating already. He'd been seeing me nearly every day and treating me to things constantly. Drinks, snacks, food, gifts. I'd hardly realized there had been a change. It had been so slow, I missed it.
But he was right.
That day, I accepted.
'I'm happy,' he said.
So was I.
I was so nervous, but there was no reason. He planned everything out without my input, arrived promptly in a car I'd never seen before. He drove me around, chatting excitedly about this and that. He was still asking questions. What sort of food am I in the mood for? Do I want wine? Am I really hungry or just peckish? Should we plan for dessert?
This was a pattern too, I learned. One I could never quite place. No matter how I answered, he had it already in motion.
'Oh good,' he would say, seeming relieved. 'I book us a reservation at a place like that.'
And he always had. I did the same as I did when we walked. I brought up strange ideas, mixed and matched truly gross combinations of liquor and food and sweets. His nose wrinkled and he looked displeased, but that smile always came back and he acquiesced.
I always changed my mind before we had to suffer too much.
Even when I changed my mind, though, it was like he'd made reservations everywhere around town. No matter what I said, it was already planned. It was like a game that he always seemed to win, no matter how vexed he may have appeared.
I told him to make reservations under my name instead once or twice, thinking maybe his name alone garnered the appropriate response, regardless of whether or not he'd reserved anything at all. He always had the proper reservation. We arrived, Seragaki, party of two, and we were seated immediately.
It seemed excessive, when I stopped to think about it, but I rarely did. He told me not to. If he thought I was thinking too much, he interrupted. I let him distract me each time. He wore a look of confusion sometimes, or of worry. His expressions always looked bewildered or new, like he'd never shown them before. Surely enough though, he would stop me from thinking, one way or another. Then he smiled, and so did I.
Granny worried about me incessantly, but I tried to tell her it would be all right. I wasn't up to mischief, just going out to dinner. I was only having one glass of wine, I would call her before we left to come home. I offered to introduce them, but they both declined. They seemed unwilling to face each other, though they both said they deferred to my choices on the matter. It was awkward, but we got used to it. It was strange for me to be out almost every night, but it became mundane.
It was just routine. We met, we talked, we laughed, we shopped, we ate, we drank, and then one day he asked if we could spend more time together. He wanted to take me back to his apartment. He didn't want the date to end yet. He wanted to open another bottle of wine there and lay on the couch and digest. He wanted to watch something, anything I would like. He was already taking a different route home.
I declined.
I didn't know how to feel about it. It seemed so strange and forward, but I suppose that's because it meant so much to him. If he hadn't asked, would I have noticed before we arrived? Would I have followed him inside without a second thought? What would've happened if I did?
The thought made my heart flutter and my face grow warm. The thoughts were there from then on. It was embarrassing to admit, but I needn't admit it just yet. We were dating, so those sorts of thoughts were normal, weren't they? I wondered what he smelled like and how his hands would feel. I realized he'd never touched me even once in all the time we'd spent together. He'd always kept a distance.
I wished he wouldn't.
I wanted to know how fast his heart beat and how deep his breaths were. I wanted to know if his thin lips were soft and what lingering taste would be transferred onto mine if we kissed. It seemed natural to think like this. We'd dated a long time. This was a natural progression, wasn't it?
I fell asleep at night, thinking about him. What it would feel like to rest beside him, whether or not we would tangle up. I thought of how his body would feel against mine, if he would make the first moves or keep his distance as he always had. I wondered if he was shy. I wondered if I should be bold.
I touched myself sometimes, idly thinking of all of the possibilities.
I thought he would make a habit of asking, just as he had before. I expected each night to end the same, and it did, but without that crucial addition. It was the same as it had been. Nothing changed. I guess I was disappointed. I thought of it each night. I entertained the possibilities. I wondered what district he lived in, what sort of apartment he had, whether or not he bothered with decoration or if it was plain. He never started heading toward that other, mysterious destination again.
I wished he would.
I was getting tired of the mundane life we'd started living. I wanted the changes, slow or quick. I wanted him to keep pushing further. I wanted more of him to become mundane so I could seek out more that hadn't yet. I wanted him.
He was surprised when I touched his hand. I was too. I felt my arm tremble and the need to pull away, but I fought it. My fingers laced over his on the shifter. I squeezed them. His pale blue eyes darted between me and the road, his head never turning away from the path before us.
We are heading to his place now. We haven't said much. I'm trying to watch the streets so I know where it is, but my heart is pounding too hard and my thoughts are racing. It won't matter. I can take notes when he drives me home tomorrow.
Tomorrow?
I'm planning to stay the night.
I'm excited, but nervous. I'm impatient to get there, to walk inside. I hope it won't be awkward or tense. I hope things just happen as everything else has. I hope it's natural and easy like it has been.
I can't tell what he's thinking, but I'm sure he already has it all planned out. He always has everything planned out. I always like what he's planned.
I'm sure it will be a big surprise.
I'm so excited.
I can't wait for what he has planned.
