Seriously?!

I'm A Booth Type Person

All work, no play. Or at least very little play. OutdoorCinema is over and now I'm down to three jobs instead of four. woo. hoo.

On Saturday after work, I went to the TeaSpot and sat for a while just reading and writing in my journal. Most of the time all I want to do after work is go home and veg, but I had a little extra energy and a pot of jasmine green tea sounded good. Most of the tables were full when I arrived, but I managed to snag one of the darker tables by the door. (I prefer the booths. They're not as exposed, the lighting is better, the seating is more comfortable, and people can't see that you're wearing white socks with black shoes.) I'd been there about 45 minutes, sneaking peeks at the guy at the table next to me who looks a lot like Jebus in between chapters in the T.Pratchett novel, Going Postal, I'm reading for review, when a guy with a guitar case comes in.

He leans across Jebus' table and shakes his hand. Giving the standard Howyadoingtonightman? greeting guys give each other when they see someone that they recognize and have been introduced to but can't remember their name. (Other guys never have issue with that. Girls want a guy to remember their name. It's important to know that she made a deep enough impression for you to want to burn her name into your frontal lobe.)

I eavesdrop unintentionally as the guitarist chats with the staff. He mentions how he thought about not coming because he wasn't expecting much of an audience, but now he's glad he did. Tall and lanky with short brown hair and wearing wire-rimmed glasses, he looks like a TA for a chemistry class. I watch him from under my lashes as he pulls up a chair on the opposite side of the door not far from my table and unloads his guitar. My back is turned mostly to him, so casually observing him is really going to throw a crick in my ass so I go back to reading until he starts to play. He strums the strings and I am lost.

I realize half an hour later that I've been staring blankly at the same page since the moment his fingers plucked the first complex bars. He's GOOD. He sticks to classical works, some of which I recognize but can't put a name to. (My musical ignorance is appalling.) I mean, he's really, really good. Even someone as musically retarded as myself can hear it.

I scootch my chair around as subtly as I can so that I can at least watch him out of the corner of my eye. He's wrapped up in the music. He's so damn GeekyHot at that moment that I want to ask him to come home with me. Please please come home and fuck me. And bring your guitar, too, 'cause I'll need you to play a few notes to get me worked up.

Just as I'm actually considering working up the nerve to do that, my phone rings. I step outside to answer it, because it would be rude to do otherwise. It's sprinkling out and night has come early because of stormclouds. It's soft out. The beginning of fall. The perfect time to be sitting in a cozy teashop with a steaming cuppa and a book, fantasizing about monsterfucking a random nerdy classical guitarist.

Jeanine has called just in time and she has no idea. She and Monica are going to go see Shaun of the Dead in Broomfield, do I want to come? Standing just at the rim of shadows in the doorway I glance up at the guitarist. He looks at me. He smiles dreamily, only half seeing me, I think, as though the strings of the guitar are needles feeding a warm and hazy drug of music into his veins.

I turn away abruptly and face into the dark. "Yes," I tell Jeanine. I have no desire to see Shaun of the Dead, but I can't stay here. "I'll be there in 20."

I hang up walk back into the tea shop, quickly pack my things and bolt without looking at the guitar player.

Maybe I'll go back next Saturday.