The table in between us is small with a naked man painted on the top. The man is laying on his side with his legs pulled up to his chest, like an oversized infant. I set my glass down on top of the pink bulge peeking out from between the man’s legs and look back up at the shoulder of the fully clothed man sitting across from me. 

 

“So, I’ve only been here a couple of times before. I find it really refreshing,” Richard’s voice drifts off as we continue to look at anything but each other. He taps his fingers rapidly on his knees. 

 

Thankfully there is a lot to look at in the coffee house, facilitating each of our attempts to pretend we aren’t in fact here. Richard looks as though he is fighting off stomach cramps, which tells me that our second date isn’t going as well as he hoped it would. 

 

Tonight is open mic night at the coffee house. Richard just finished reading some of his original poetry. Richard’s poetry is really and truly terrible.

 

During his reading I tried very hard not to cringe at his unfortunate exploration of verse. Now that we are sitting at the table together, not cringing isn’t enough. I need to say something. 

 

I clear my throat. “Your use of simile was really expressive,” I tell him. Our eyes meet for the first time since his reading.

 

“Thanks.”