Currents

     He told me that he liked to watch the boats sail on the river on some early afternoons to pass the time. “It’s not because I’m lonely or anything--it’s just--I like to imagine all of the incredible places they may be going and think that someday I could move forward as well. It reminds me that no matter how stationary I feel my life is, the world is always moving and I’m moving with it.” He sat down his coffee mug and grinned a half smile.
We were at a café right down the street from campus--early Saturday morning. We woke up and he simply asked if I would like to get coffee and breakfast, since he hadn’t made time to go to the store or he would’ve cooked something. “And I know you must be hungry,” he said. Since I was unsure about how to decline politely, I said I would.
      We walked in silence out of his apartment and down the street about a quarter mile where the café was just opening. It was a small place, tucked in between a liquor store and a Chinese take out, with a blue door and large windows. Even after living in this town for a little over a year, I had never stepped into this particular café, nor did I believe I had ever noticed it.
      I ordered a pumpkin spice latte made with almond milk and he ordered just a cup of the house blend. Black. He paid. The room was dimly lit up, booths lined the walls, and there was a stage at the very front where they would have poetry reading on some Tuesday nights--or so said the flyer that was on our table. We sat in the back of the café, hidden from curious eyes that may come though the door with our coffee that came in large black mugs with white stripes. He also ordered a blueberry muffin--the top caked with a thick icing--which sat on a black plate between us.
     I played with the edges of my hair, keeping my eyes angled down at my coffee, not yet taking a sip. The Batista had swirled the cream on the top of the coffee in the shape of a heart and I picked up my spoon, slicing though it like a knife, changing the shape. I took a sip and glanced up at him.
He was wearing the same button-down shirt that he had on the night before, a stain right below the left breast pocket where either he spilled his beer or I had spilled mine on him. I didn’t even want to think about how I looked at the moment--I had quickly braided my hair loosely before leaving his apartment but didn’t look in the mirror. I knew that my face was probably still holding the remnants of last night’s make-up and I was wearing one of his button-down striped polo’s over my florescent pink tank-top that was obviously not weather appropriate. The button-down was two sizes too big and when I stood it covered my tank-top and hit mid thigh as if I was wearing a dress.
      I pushed the thought of my appearance out of my mind and reached out toward the muffin"I broke off a piece and tried to eat it. Nausea filled my stomach but I forced it down.
      I continued to avoid eye contact. In any other situation I may not have found it odd that he was asking me out for coffee, but since the offer was brought up after a night filled with shots of cheap bottom self vodka and watered down beers, where things were fuzzy like the static of an old television set, it made the whole idea of a coffee date a little--well"--strange. I hoped that he didn’t want to talk about the night prior, that being a conversation that I would most rather not have in a café. Or with a guy I didn’t really know for that matter. I just wanted to finish the cup and walk back to my apartment to sleep off this dreaded hangover.
     My friends are probably going to think that this is crazy. True, at first they will be proud that their little sad Emma got out and met someone, if only for a night. That I had to partake in the traditional walk of shame for the first time after being the one witnessing theirs over the last year in a half. I mean, it’s just like what was said in the movie Bridesmaids--Everyone needs those s****y college years and I guess last night marks the beginning of mine.
I always thought I was above all that, since I thought I was in a serious relationship that was mature enough to skip over the years of meaningless sex with names that are forgotten by the next morning. Instead of going out, I served as the welcoming committee for my friends when they came home in their morning after outfits. I stayed in, committed to my boyfriend. I lived vicariously through their silly, drunken, stories but I always felt content. I was never jealous because I was happy with what I had--or what I thought I had--since the entire time he was going out and coming home with women just like my friends over at the university in the adjoining state. Until, the break-up that revealed the unfaithfulness of my boyfriend, which left me in bed, a mess, for weeks.
It was my roommates idea to take me out. They dressed me in high-waisted black shorts and a pink tank top that dipped a little too low. They started handing me shots of vodka, one after another, and drove me to a party at some off campus apartment complex filled with too many people in too small of quarters. After a few beers that were handed to me at the party, a shot or two more of vodka, I was stumbling around corners and into doors and somehow ended up in bed with this guy that was now sitting in front of me.
      I took another small sip of my coffee and realized that I had no memory of his name. He wasn’t a familiar face from a class or one I may have seen in passing on campus and I tore my mind apart trying to see if I could remember anything about him--for anything that I could say if only to avoid the conversation of figuring out exactly what had happened the night before. Instead, he started talking. He started talking about the boats.
He told me that he had been going to the river to watch the boats ever since his freshmen year of high school. That he and a friend discovered the trail once on a run. “We saw a break in the woods on the side of South Fork Road and just thought, what the hell. So we took it and after about a mile, we ran into this river.”
      I took a sip of my coffee as he continued to tell his story. He said that after that run he would sometimes hike up there and work on homework and just watch the boats. That he still does sometimes when he is home on break. “It’s just relaxing. Tell me something about yourself.”
I looked down at my mug and picked up a spoon, stirring my latte in a slow manner, contemplating. “What do you want to know?”
      “Well… what do you like to do?”
      “I like to paint.”
      “What do you like to paint?”
      “Boats.”
      He laughed and I smiled, my eyes still focused down as I continued to talk.
      “I’m kidding. I like to paint pictures of people. People talking or standing next to each other. I like to paint pictures that invoke emotion. A baby crying, an older couple holding hands. ”
      “So, you’re an art major?”
      “No, I’m an accounting major.”
      “Why not art?”
      I continued to stir my coffee. “My family is all about being practical, and an art degree isn’t that practical unless I would go into Art Education, but teaching art and being an artist are two different things. Plus, I don’t paint much anymore.”
      “Why not?”
      “Time, patience.”
      He nodded his head, understanding.
      “What are you studying?” I said.
      “Writing, I want to be a poet.”
      “What do you like to write about?”
      His eyes wandered around the café, looking at the microphone on the stage. “Life, the world, me.” He said. I looked up at him and we made eye contract. It was now that I realized how attractive he was. Big, bold, brown eyes with dark rimmed glasses. His hair was brown, but it was messy and he ran his hands though while he talked, making it stick up and out in every direction. “I’m reading something here--on Tuesday--at seven.”
I nodded my head, unsure of what that that was implying. Was that an invitation? Did he want me to come? Thinking that that was a bit of a strange request, since I just met him last night, I pushed it out of my head and simply said, “Good luck to you.”
      “Thanks.” He reached over and took the muffin. “Are you going to eat this?” I shook my head, watching as he delicately peeled off the muffin’s outer cup.   
     “Where do you live?”
      “The Oxford apartments, on campus.”
      “Oh, right behind the stadium?”
      “Yes, those are the ones.”
      “Is it just you?”
      “No, there’s three of us total.” Speaking of my friends, I reached in the pocket of my shorts and pulled out my cell phone, thankful that I had not lost it the night prior. 8:45. They would still be sleeping. “Sorry, I was just seeing if they called to check up on me or anything.”
He nodded. After finishing the muffin he got up from his chair and stands up.
      “We should go then. Do you want me to walk you to your apartment?”
      “I can take the bus,” I said, remembering then that I rarely ever stepped off campus, so I had no idea where the closest stop was. “Is there a stop near?”
      “Yeah, here. I’ll show you.”
      He reached over, took the mugs, and left them near the trashcan. He stared to walk out the door and I followed him. I noticed that there was a bus stop a few shops down"the bus already waiting.
      “Thanks for the coffee,” I said, walking towards to bus.
      “Wait.” I turned and looked at him. “I feel really stupid saying this, but I don’t remember your name.”
      Not being able to control myself, I laugh, “Emma.”
      “James.”


      Later that day, I stood in front of an empty sheet of paper and didn’t feel imitated by uncertainty. I closed my eyes and collected myself before I dipped a paintbrush into a splatter of blue paint.
      I started with a single stroke separating the horizon and the edge of the water. I mixed different blues, grays, and greens, trying to make the color of the water exactly the way I was imagining it. I painted the sun at its zenith giving full view of the horizon, and then I started to paint the boats. Sailboats--with wooden decks and large triangle sails that were each painted a different color. Going towards the horizon, through the rays of the sun and away form the beach.
      After speaking with James, I had been consumed with the idea of boats and how they move with the current--forward. That unless they are anchored down or tied to a dock they would be traveling forward, even if it was going simply though the motions. The weather would affect the boats--pushing it left and right and changing their direction--but it would always end up somewhere to stay for a little while until it would set out on the sea again for a new destination. Maybe returning to the last one. Maybe never looking back.