What's a Year?

Typically, I love rainy days, the soft patter of rain on the window, the sparkle of the city after the refreshing cleanse. But this day, I was just irritated. Toby had taken the coffee maker when he moved out of our once-shared apartment because our relationship 'just felt too real.' I missed the coffee maker more than him, especially as I tucked into the overcrowded café filled with equally annoyed and damp patrons.

"You can sit." The chair across from me spun out a bit from the shove of his foot as he spoke. His voice was low like the rumble of a motorcycle, irksome in the same fashion. It was a hoarse voice that crashed through my daydream like the growl of an oversized truck overshadowing the song you are trying to hear on the radio.

"I'm fine; thank you." My smile came flat like my tone, hoping to dissuade any further conversation.

"Suit yourself, but I've been here for 15-minutes, and the new barista seems no closer to figuring out his job now than when I sat down." He waved a hand to a particularly disgruntled man hovering by the counter, "that dude got here before me."

I looked down at this rather pushy stranger inspecting him for any hints that he was a nefarious character. He didn't appear to be holding a bloody knife nor have an unseasonably warm ski mask for this early Fall day. He was only armed with a pen that he was wielding against a napkin with uninspired strokes. I glanced up at the floundering barista before I reluctantly plopped down in the chair.

"Impressive." He murmured to himself. He glanced up at me briefly with warm brown eyes that had an infuriating degree of a tease to them.

"What's impressive?" I knew I would regret engaging, but it appeared my coffee would take a while; damn, caffeine addiction.

"Usually, it takes people a solid 3-minutes to determine I'm not a psycho-killer; you made it there in one." One corner of his mouth twitched up into a crooked smile. He was too confident for his average looks; his oval face was framed by a disheveled mop of chocolate brown hair that somehow managed to merge into his unshaven scruff. His eyebrows were entirely too thick, giving him a sleepy look. "For the record, I am only one, not both." His eyes flickered down to his doodle before up to me again. "Not even a fake smile." He assessed.

"Am I supposed to find mental health or murderers funny?" I should have been nicer; he had offered me the last seat in the small café, but friendly was not in my bones.

"Do you credit this sunny disposition to lack of coffee, or are you just really sexually frustrated?" He didn't bother looking up from his doodle this time, as though my answer didn't interest him in the least.

"Let me discuss my sex life with the stranger in a coffee shop. That seems like a solid way to start my day."

"Who better to share sexual frustration? Not like I'm going to judge; I'll probably never see you again." He just volleyed the conversation with his stupid sleepy eyebrows. "Ryan, so we aren't strangers anymore."

"Sarah," I responded with my name out of automatic politeness. Aggravated at my slip, I pushed to regain the conversation. "Shared, so you are sexually frustrated?"

"I'm a man in my mid-twenties; I'm sexually frustrated by definition."

"Charmer like you with no girlfriend; shocking." I should have gotten up, but his lack of attention became a nuisance that I couldn't ignore. It's one thing to be ignored in favor of a phone, I was used to the distraction of a black gadget, but a pen and napkin were just impolite.

"I didn't say I didn't have a girlfriend; I just said I was sexually frustrated."

"You know it's rude to hold a conversation without even bothering to make eye contact." A laugh erupted from his lips, but he met my eyes. "What's so funny?" My tone dripped with annoyance.

"You're giving me tips on decorum. You're welcome for the seat." He was baiting me.

"Thank you." It was a mumbled lackluster slap at gratitude. He let his gaze drop back to his doodle as the silence blanketed the table.

"Becca." He murmured after a few minutes, lifting his eyes to mine for a split second. "That's the name of my soon to be ex." His eyes dropped again.

"Why are you leaving her?" The question popped from my mouth before I could stop it.

"I'm not leaving her; she's leaving me." I held his gaze, hoping he wouldn't make me pry for more information.

No luck, I had to poke. "How do you know she is leaving you?"

"She got a residency at a hospital on the West Coast. She's at home right now trying to figure out how to tell me. I figured I would give her some space to form how to let me down easy."

"You won't go with her?" My damn curiosity.

"Do I look like someone that would agree with sunny California?" He spread out his arms to flash his pallid skin. "Besides, I'm a New Yorker." He sat deeper in his chair and finally showed actual interest in me. His eyes moved over me in a quick inspection that was neither vulgar nor dismissive. "It's sad, really. She's a sweet girl; she shouldn't have to go through such turmoil."

"She's breaking up with you, and you feel bad for her?" It was ridiculous. "You could help her out and leave her."

"Oh, I couldn't do that. For one, I have no reason to leave her; she would never believe me. I'm a terrible liar. Plus, I wouldn't want her to think there was a reason to be left. She doesn't deserve that confidence hit."

"That's sweet, I think." I was still trying to unravel the situation like a grade school word problem.

"That's me: sweet, I think." He added the last part with the same confused inflection I had used. When I met his eyes, he had a playful smirk on his face. "What brings you to this cursed café on this dreary day?"

"Coffee."

"How boring." His eyes shifted back to his doodle.

His lack of attention bothered me again and pushed me to grab it back. "My ex took the coffee maker when he left."

"What kind of unpleasant, off-putting, tyrant were you with?" His dull and even tone only accented the escalation of his name-calling.

"It was his," I added with a shrug.

His hand unexpectedly shot across the table and gently picked up my hand. With a tender squeeze and an intense gaze, he added, "I am sorry for your loss."

My face flushed at the care. "It wasn't that big of a deal." I stammered, still off-centered from his sudden focus.

"I disagree; the loss of a coffee maker can leave lasting scars." He dropped my hand and sat back in his chair with a pleased smile on his face.

"You think you are so funny." The tightness in my chest from his sudden attention began to unknot when he backed away from my proximity.

"No, I think I'm charmingly handsome. I know I'm funny." He was back to his doodle.

"And so humble," I added for him. Somehow as I inspected him again, he appeared handsome. His unkempt hair was drawing my mind to thoughts of running my fingers through it, and his diverted eyes were making me feel chilled in their shade. "I am sorry about Becca."

"What's a year?" He shrugged to himself.

"You were with her for a year?" I couldn't stop my prying.

"No, we have been together for 3-years. I suspect it will take a year until I'm ready to fall in love again." He spoke with a level of passivity that was usually reserved for such mundane things as recounting your dinner the previous night.

"How very self-aware. May I ask how you get to that specific estimate?"

"Well, I had thought it would be 18-months, but I recently have been inclined to reduce it to 12-months." His eyes flickered up to mine; I didn't drop my regard as another silent prod for him to continue. "For 3-months, I'll convince myself that I'm fine. She's happy and doing what she loves. I'm here in the city I love. It's for the best, really. Then just when I'm feeling invincible, bam, the bus hits."

"The bus hits?"

He leaned onto the table, casting his doodle aside for once. I felt myself lean in, instinctively pulled to his proximity. "Yeah, the bus. It'll be something small: an earring left between couch cushions, the hint of her perfume on a random person on the subway. Nothing life-altering, but enough to pull me back to what I've lost. That's the next 3-months, the wallow of what I've lost."

"And month 6?" I was captivated, and he could feel it. It propelled him further.

He lowered his voice to an even quieter tone, so I had to tip my face a bit closer to him to hear him properly. "Month 6 is the rebound phase. I'll date someone that is the exact opposite of Becca to prove how over her I am. It'll be a terrible relationship with starts and stops. I'll annoy my friends and family with how unpleasant the entire situation becomes."

"Oh, that sounds terrible."

"Thank you; it will be. That brings me to 1-year. I'll finally end the horrid relationship, to the relief of my loved ones, and meet the love of my life in some arbitrary setting, most likely a corner shop café." He sat back after his story.

"1-year." I sat back as well, suddenly freed by his magnetic pull. "What made you recently reduce it from 18-months?"

"Mm," his suddenly sensual eyes flickered to mine in a way that sent a surge through my entire body ending in a full-on toe curl. "I had thought there would be a ghost period."

"Ghost period?" My voice came as a whisper from the surge that was still settling into my chest.

"You know when you are here, but not here. The people around you don't affect you; you are just a body completing the required tasks to sustain life."

"You expect to by-pass that phase?" My breathing had finally settled.

"I think so; I believe I've been affected by an outsider." He shot another carnal look that immediately sent a flush to my face. The reddening he inflicted caused a mischievous smile to tip his lips.

"And how are you so sure you'll meet the love of your life in an arbitrary setting; too many romcoms?" I had to regain control of myself and the conversation.

"I expect to see her here actually; in one-year."

As he spoke, the barista called out, "Ryan."

He stood and leaned in close to my ear. In a whisper, he added, "it was a pleasure to meet you, Sarah. I expect to be seeing you in a year."

My eyes followed him as he picked up his coffee from the counter. Before departing to the rain, he gave me one last look accented with a wink that sent a final surge to my toes.

I turned back, intent on collapsing into a puddle on the table when I noticed his doodle sitting right in front of me. He must have slid it closer as he leaned in. His drawing of us sitting across from each other at a small table in the rainy window of a corner café filled the napkin. Across the bottom, he had the date. I picked it up to inspect it further; he was an impressive artist. On the back, he had scrawled, "I'll see you in a year. Ryan."