Teriyaki Girl
by Michael Kadel

It has never been said that I am good at dating. Every time I’ve had a relationship it’s happened after I had been expressly told that the girl wanted to date me. Starting these things without knowing the other person’s thoughts on the subject has never worked out.

Even so, I find myself in the teriyaki place next to work yet again. I’ve had an engineering internship in the building across the street for more than two months now, and ever since about the first week I’ve been eating here almost every day. The girl who works behind the counter is just so cute. Sandy blond, curly hair and blue eyes. Conventional beauty, but striking all the same. I would love to ask her out, and that’s been my goal since first setting foot in the restaurant. I have yet to execute.

Here’s the scenario: I walk in and wait in line to get the chicken and rice bowl, no vegetables, and a small drink. As the line creeps forward, I try to figure out if I’ve placed myself right to go to her register. Any little bit of contact helps. It’s not like I ever strike up much of a conversation, but perhaps I can build up a relationship of repetitiveness, recognized by my frequent visits and consistent order.

Today was no different. I have my little bowl of rice and chicken, and my small drink, which I will refill a time or two while I read my book and try to smile her way. It drives me nuts that I can’t scrounge up the courage to even mention the weather, or ask her for her name, but such is my life. I’m cursed by mental paralysis brought on by the attractive and unfamiliar. However, I only have two more weeks before I’m going back to California for school, so if I want to avoid kicking myself all next year for not even trying, I suppose I need to get a move on and say something to her.

* * *

Today I’ve brought my lunch -- an egg salad sandwich, some chips, a few cookies in a baggie, and a can of Coke. Not being a huge fan of coffee, my Coke has filled the role of my morning pick-me-up. I’m going to need something to drink with my lunch.

As I walk across the street and through the parking lot, I steel myself to my upcoming task. I need to have enough time to actually go on a couple dates if this is going to work at all, which means the time is nigh. I need to ask her for her number today, before the weekend.

Inside the store, I take my place in line, much like the line that winds out from heaven’s pearly gates, I’m sure. I’m either going to get her number, let in to experience heavenly bliss, have all my fears put to rest, God loves me, or I shall be denied, cast into the fire and brimstone of rejected suitors everywhere. It may seem melodramatic to you, but I’m not really one to approach anyone for anything.

The few times I’ve asked a girl for her number, it has been the regular guy’s equivalent of asking an entire auditorium full of beautiful women for their numbers while wearing only tightie-whities on a very cold day. Mortifying to say the least.

And now it’s my turn, and it’s her turn to take the next order. Fate smiles. It was meant to be. I approach the register. I arrive and it’s time to speak. “Hi. I’d like a small Coke and your phone number. I’m Mike by the way.” My mouth has engaged before my brain! I’m not smooth. What was I thinking? What will she say?

Then comes her reply, “I’m Christy, and I have a boyfriend.” Simple and to the point. A rejection whose reasons lie outside my realm of control. No consolation to my current state of mortified, incoherent thought, but later I’m sure it will seem better than some alternative rejections.

”Oh, just a small drink then,” comes my retort. And the unaided mouth comes through in the clutch! I pay for my Coke, and leave.

For want of a little sanctuary, I sit outside, and eat my lunch, and drink my small drink, and wait for the blood to drain from my ears, face and neck. It’s over. I did my best, even if my best was a little socially retarded, devoid of the niceties of introductions first, questions later. I guess doing things in order is not my cup of tea.

Never again will I be able to eat teriyaki. I’m not sure if it was the embarrassment of the whole experience, or the simple fact that I had the same thing for lunch almost every day for 2-1/2 months. The fact remains, I can only eat a couple of bites before I lose my appetite.

Even so, I do take a little happiness from the thought that I flustered her too, if not as much as she flustered me, still enough to throw her off kilter.

On the way back to work I counted my change from the ten dollar bill I used to buy the small drink. Five fifty was my change -- the same change I would have received had I ordered a the chicken and rice bowl, no vegetables, and a small drink.