He Has a Lake House

The sandwich I assembled this morning does not taste right. I was so careful about how much mayo I put on it because anything more than a single spread makes me gag. I wonder if the ham was out of date. I won’t be able to get any more until Friday anyway, so I might as well make the best of this.

I shoot a look over at the guy who’s been going around the tables and talking to everyone trying to enjoy the stillness of the library. He seems to always be in here every time I come. What does he do all day every day? I guess someone could ask the same about me. But my freelance online writing really is a real job. Maybe he’s an online writer too. I try not to judge just by looking at him.

Oh god, we just made eye contact. Why was I looking that way for so long? Why did he have to turn around at this specific moment. Please turn back around - don’t make this weird. He’s making this weird. He’s walking this way. I take two more huge bites out of my sandwich, as if he’d have the awareness to know not to speak to me with my mouth full. Of course, he doesn’t have a single hair of awareness on his head.

Although I’ve seen him in the library a dozen times in the past few months, he’s never actually come over and spoken to me. How lucky I’ve been. How unlucky I am now.

And look, before you think horribly of me, don’t think I’m dreading this man sitting down next to me because he looks a certain way or acts a certain way. I would feel like this about my own brother or sister sitting down next to me right now. We I want to focus on something, I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to interact. Right now, I’m focusing completely on my sandwich, and this is definitely an unwelcome intrusion upon sandwich time.

He sits down with an ease of comfort that somehow makes me even more uncomfortable that I thought I would be. How can he not see the undeniable awkwardness across all my features? Instead of noticing, he plunges right into his greeting through a wide smile. I almost feel bad at how much I want to be somewhere else right now. He seems nice enough.

“Roger,” he says. I thank all the universe’s deities out there that he does not extend a handshake. That would be far too much, and I truly fear my body would forcefully remove me from this scenario.

Wait, was that his name, or was he affirming some unasked question? Too many seconds have passed for me to ask him to repeat that. My mouth is still full, though, so I could totally blame it on that. I make an overly dramatic show of chewing my food, being more thorough than I’ve ever been. His smile and accompanying silence is so patient. Too patient? He keeps looking at me while I chew. Is this weird? Am I making it weird?

“Anthony,” I say between chews.

He extends his hand, confirming my worst fear. I raise my sandwich with both of mine as to tell him I cannot spare a hand of my own. He looks hurt, taking his hand back like I’d slapped it instead of silently denying him.

Any momentary offense taken by my action disappears as he clears his throat to continue this uncondoned conversation. “Anthony, it’s nice to meet you. I have a question if you don’t mind.”

I do mind, but I could barely get my name out through my chewing so there was no way to properly tell him my true thoughts. My mind immediately jumps to the question I expect to come out of him: “Do you know my Lord and Sav-”

“Have you ever been to a lake house?”

I pause mid-chew. Wait, that took a definite different turn that I’d anticipated. Surely I’d heard him wrong, right? I swallow.

“I don’t think I have, no. No.” I say.

His eyes light up in the most disconcerting fashion. “Oh it’s absolutely fantastic, Anthony. They’re a great place to go to chill and unwind. Or if you’re into parties, they’re good for that too.”

He let that statement linger in the air, not adding anything to it right away. I let it linger too, unsure where he’s going with this. I’m still trying to recover from my surprise of him not inviting me to his church.

“It turns out that I have a lake house,” he says. 

I blink. “Oh you do?”

“Yes, I do. I have an actual lake house. Would you like to come see it sometime?”

“I…” Where do I go? How do I land this plane? “I’m sure it’s a nice place, but I’m not too sure it’s something I would be interested in honestly.”

He looks even more hurt than when I didn’t shake his hand. I power on.

“I’m just not a huge fan of lakes. I get bitten easily by bugs, and it’s usually hot.”

“There aren’t any bugs inside, Anthony. And I’ll keep the A/C down cool. I’m sure you would find it more fun than you’re imagining.”

I chuckle. “Once again, thank you... Roger? But I have a pretty good imagination, and I assure you that wouldn’t be my thing.”

“Well you don’t have to be an ass about it.” He slides his chair back hard.

I feel my ears turn red. “Hey, I wasn’t trying to be an ass, man. I just don’t want to visit the lake house is all.”

“I was trying to be nice, and you’re just being a fucking dick.” His voice is raised enough now that I’m feeling a lot of eyes on us. My how this escalated in a hurry.

“Roger, let’s calm down now, man. We’re in public and getting a little too loud.”

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” he yells.

I feel my own anger flare up. “Don’t raise your goddam voice at me. I didn’t ask for you to come over here in the first place, and you’re the one freaking out. Now please leave me the fuck alone.”

He just looks at me with crazy, untamed eyes and I think of what it might feel like to look into the eyes of a bull that has just been branded or something. He stumbles away from his chair, shoving back into the table with a loud clatter. I hear him still swearing under his breath as he stalks off.

I looks down to find myself holding my sandwich too tight and ruining the bread. My heart still pounds from the rush of anger and my rare outburst. I sheepishly glance around the room to find most everyone staring at me - those not looking are wearing headphones. This is great. Fantastic. Exactly how I was hoping lunch to go.

Mind unable to shake the image of Roger inviting me to his lake house and then storming off, I take another bite of my sandwich. It still tastes weird. Smells weird. Feels weird.

But to be fair, thanks to Roger, everything about the day feels weird now.