Did I Ask?

Harrison sat down for his umpteenth morning iced coffee at the corner coffee shop down the road from his house where he liked to go most mornings before work. He opened up his book, Berlin Stories by Christopher Isherwood, and started to read. He liked to get in 15 or 20 minutes of reading every morning with his coffee. Then he read the rest of the way into work on the bus. Harrison kept to routines.

He only got to read for a few minutes before someone asked from behind him, “Harrison?” He turned around to see this guy in a yellow suit with a Brewers cap on, Nike shoes and a notebook in his hand. They guy was sort of chubby, but not obese, not terminal. He had long hair. Harrison had never seen the guy before. Especially not in the bright yellow suit.

“Do I know you?” Harrison asked, a little irritated.

The man sat down at his table without asking. He might have made an interrogative gesture at the chair but he probably wasn’t even looking at Harrison when he did it.

“You know when you finally wrote about getting your morning coffee every day here, I thought, finally! I can meet this guy!” the man told him. “I"m Marcus-Paul. How do you do?”

“I’m confused, Marcus-Paul. I’m confused… you?”

“Your weblog,” Marcus-Paul answered. Harrison nodded. “I’ve been reading it forever.”

“You know, I’m not…”

“Right, you don’t really like talking to people mornings. I know. I read that on your weblog.”

“I …”

“And I don’t really think you’re too into meeting people across the board. Me either, you know. People suck. But, then again, I’ve been reading your weblog for so long that I feel like I really like you and we could really get along.”

“So, can I… I don’t… what do…”

“I’m not a gay guy or anything Harrison. Gosh. I remember when you wrote about how much you hate it when gay guys hit on you, you know? Because you don’t dislike them but you feel guilty telling them you aren’t interested because they always look confused. I feel you, man. You really expressed what a lot of us nice guys go through.”

“Umm. Thanks. I don’t. This is sort of weird… I have to tell you… umm, Marcus-Paul.”

“Weird?”

“I feel like, I don’t know. You know me or something and I don’t know you and like, I don’t really understand…”

“You know, I just read your weblog. I don’t read many weblogs, but man I dig the hell out of yours.”

“Right, well, great, but…”

“I mean, you want people, you want strangers to read your weblog, right…?”

“I guess…”

“I mean, you sort of want to connect with strangers, right?”

“I hadn’t…”

“Why else would you keep a weblog, then?”

The barrista looked over at the two men. She looked at Marcus-Paul as if she had seen him for the first time. Harrison watched her look him up and down. A yellow suit. A yellow suit? Bright yellow. It was the same color of the background of his on-line diary. It was the same color as the sunlight outside, the sunlight Harrison wanted to walk into, to walk away from this stranger who knew so many things about him. He wanted to put a hat on and some phony glasses, first though. He didn’t want to feel so exposed.

“Did that girl who drew your portrait at the bar last month ever call you back? I’ve been dying to know.” Marcus-Paul asked him.

“She… um…” Harrison put his hand on his hip, “You know, my cell phone’s ringing, man, good to meet you.”