I open the brewery door and look around. Or at least pretend to while my eyes adjust to the relative dimness of the room after the brightness of the late afternoon. I’ve walked by this place I don’t know how many times on my way to work, but have never stopped in. I think it was one of those “cyber cafés” a while back, but got turned into a regular coffee shop without the “cyber” part – and eventually, a microbrewery. Has all the things you’d expect: rustic, hardwood floor and ceiling, coupled with plastered brick walls; a couple of glass-door fridges near the door filled with multicolored cans and bottles; and tables that are just a little too small, coupled with chairs that seem to be competing with the tables on how inconveniently tall they all can be.
All the things you’d expect, that is, save one: people. The place is completely empty. Not even a too-perky hostess to greet me when I step in. I glance at the entry door behind me, making sure I’m in the right place: Chip’s Micro-Brewery. My watch confirms the time — well, eight minutes before time. If you’re early, you’re on time; if you’re on-time, you’re late, Dad always used to say.
A sudden flashing light in my field of view interrupts my musing. A ring of LEDs circle a sign I hadn’t noticed before right in front of me, in the usual “Please wait to be seated” spot. But rather than that – or the alternative “Please seat yourself” directive – the sign reads, “Welcome to Chip’s! Find a seat anywhere and scan this QR code for our FAQ!” I pull out my phone to scan the code, then make my way over to a table near the large gleaming-metal vats that presumably they brew, micro-ly. The seat’s got a good view of the door and the rest of the room, so nobody can sneak up on me.
As I sit down, my phone finishes loading a webpage from the QR code, showing a picture of the same room I’m in now, but with a small crowd of people, all looking like they’re enjoying the overly-tall chairs and tables a little too much. The text begins, “Welcome to Chip’s! You might notice that we do things a little differently here…” But before I get much past that, the front door opens.
A woman steps in. She’s a little on the short side, with dark, curly hair that borders on frizzy, and wearing a cream-colored cardigan over top an orange sundress. She removes a set of clip-on sunglasses from her chunky regular glasses, but even so, still has to adjust to the differing light levels just as I did. She glances around in confusion, much as I imagine I did myself, before finally settling her eyes on me.
I wave at her slightly, and call out, “Leia?” My voice catches in my throat, though, and it comes out as an unintelligible bleat. I clear my throat and try again. She smiles and makes her way over to the table.
“Greggory?” she asks as she nears. I nod, then quickly realize etiquette means I should stand up so she can sit. But as I do, my chair topples backward, and I fumble with righting it as she stops at the table.
Words tumble out of me. “It’s just Gregg, actually…with two Gs. But whatever, it’s fine. Yes, I’m me. I mean, me is him. Erm, yes.” I wave vaguely at the other chair at the table, but she makes no move towards it.
Her mouth quirks to the side…in irritation? At me or herself, I can’t tell. But she gestures in my direction, saying, “Do you mind if I sit there? I can’t feel comfortable with my back to the door…”
I am about to respond with, Me either, but realize the limited options we have for seating at this table. I point to the table next to ours, angled against a wall so that neither of us would have our backs to the door. “Whatifwemovetothere?” I spew at her.
Again, that quirk of her mouth. “As long as the waitress doesn’t mind, I suppose,” she says and moves to that table.
I chuckle in what I hope is a derisive, yet good-natured fashion as I stand and walk over. “Haven’t seen a waitress or host or anything yet, so I think we’re all good.” I sit down, realizing only too late that she had paused to let me pull a chair out for her, if I so chose. I go to stand back up, but she takes the chair and seats herself, prompting me to sit right back down as well — a bit too quickly, as the chair makes a loud BRAAAAAP sound against the hardwood floor. I clear my throat again and state the first thing that comes to mind. “So, you don’t really strike me much as a ‘Leia’…”
I instantly regret my mind.
But she takes the borderline-rude comment in stride. I suspect this has come up fairly often for her. “My parents loved Star Wars,” she mutters, dropping her gaze to her purse as she twists around, hanging it on the back of her chair. “They wanted to name their kid either Luke or Leia, whether or not I had the right-”
“Hairdo?” I interrupt, assuming that she was going to say skin tone. I’m really hoping that this is a good angle of approach. “I imagine getting those cinnamon bun things done would be pretty hard with your curls.”
She laughs; I can tell she’s thrown off-guard, but it’s a genuine laugh — with no mouth-quirk. “Exactly that. Sure.” Her eyes briefly make contact with mine, before scanning around the room, looking for other people.
I raise my phone and explain, “It looks like the place is automatically run. I was about to find out more when you came in.”
She scoffs, “Automatically run?” What is this world coming to? is strongly implied, but not actually voiced. “I don’t normally do microbrews because they’re all so obsessed with IPAs.”
A point of connection! “I know! Gimme, like, a Belgian wit any day over that lite piss.”
She leans in, obviously interested, but parries. “I prefer something with more meat on its bones.”
I glance down at my phone, at the beer list that has popped up, unbidden. “Oatmeal stout?” I suggest.
Her eyes widen. “Places like this never have stouts!”
“This place does. And oooo, a strawberry wheat…”
She chuckles a bit and smiles slyly. “You don’t strike me as a ‘fruity’ guy. Or at least your email didn’t!”
“My email?” I respond with a bit of surprise. “What part of ‘Sounds good, see you then, Gregg,’ sounded, erm, un-fruity?”
A hint of the mouth quirk comes back, coupled with her eyebrows furrowing. “I meant the first email you sent me. You know, the one about seeing me on the Accounting floor, and…” she clears her throat. “And wondering about how much room there is in the supply closet?”
Now it’s my turn to eyebrow-furrow. “Uh, I’ve never even been on the Accounting floor. Chelsea does all the hiring for your team; I’m strictly a sales recruiter. Which was where your first email said you saw me, interviewing that kid straight out of community college? And how you wanted to be, um, grilled?”
Her eyes flash in a combination of anger and embarrassment, but before she can say anything, my phone makes an audible alert sound. Funny, I think, I always have my phone muted. I look down at the notification, and it’s from the microbrewery: CHOOSE A DRINK WITHIN THE NEXT 2 MINUTES TO GET OUR HAPPY HOUR HALF-OFF DISCOUNT. I try to reset the mood by showing the alert and quipping, “Looks like our waitress is getting antsy. You want the stout?”
“No.” Her voice has changed, turning low, slow, and deliberate. Definitely danger territory. “I want to know exactly when you decided to ask me out.”
My eyes squint in suspicion. “I didn’t. You asked me.”
Leia’s head shakes as she pulls her phone out of her purse. “I don’t know what sort of game you’re trying to play here, Gregg-with-two-Gs, but you were most definitely first.” She shoves her phone in my face, and I can see the opening of an email from my work address:
Hi, Leia—
You probably don’t know me, but like my Dad always says, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” I’ve been finding excuses to come up to Accounting regularly just to see if I can run into you…
Baffled, I mutter, “That’s definitely something Dad would have said, but I never wrote this.”
Leia abruptly stands up. “This all was a mistake. Sorry, but I think I need to leave.” She grabs her purse and stalks out of the room, the door slamming shut behind her.
I pick my phone back up, and switch to my own email. Looking up the beginning of the thread, I see:
Hey, Greggory,
You probably don’t know me, but the hardest journey starts by taking the first step. I have been wanting to reach out to you for quite some time…
Before I can read any farther, though, the email disappears from my archive. I glance at the delete button, making sure my thumb was nowhere near it, but I also see a notification about my grammar checker getting a system update.
I’m left alone with my bewildered thoughts for all of about 30 seconds when the door opens again. A tall, blonde woman – I believe she would be described as “statuesque” – walks into the brewery, looking in my direction. “Gregg, right?” she calls out.
“Uh, right?” I stammer.
She smiles and strides my way. “I don’t often do blind dates, but your texts were just so interesting!”
My phone dings in my hand. A new notification reads, DON’T SCREW THIS ONE UP, GREGG. And a previously-hidden panel on the wall beside me opens, revealing a glass of beer. It smells of strawberries.
