Three Two Four: Fears

 Sometimes I do take counsel of my fears.  

Right now there's one more place downtown where I'm afraid to go.

One recent Saturday, on a bright summery afternoon I went to the hipster cafe downtown for a drink, and I met a lovely co-ed, a girl of twenty-two who'd just graduated university here, We chatted, flirted a bit, ordered cocktails. Towards dusk she walked home with me-- yes, holding my hand --and went swimming with me. We swam, kissed, went back upstairs to my flat. The next morning I drove her back to her car.  All well and good.  She had lovely legs, amazing blue eyes, and a mass of chestnut hair. 

I gave her my number, and while she was attentive and flirty and talked about borrowing books, I haven't heard from her in two weeks. So she ghosted me. Well, it happens. I'm supposing that I was an experiment, something out of the ordinary, something outrageous, that she was doing in that strange liminal space between graduation and going into the corporate world. Okay, it does leave me a bit melancholy. She was very bright and fun and adventurous, and I was hoping for a small summertime affair.  Well...alas.

But now I am afraid to go back to the hipster cafe. I'm not sure which word to use-- afraid or ashamed. The girl and I flirted shamelessly at the bar, and we told each other stories. Going back with her on my arm would be one thing, but going back alone is another. The flirtation, the semi-dancing up against one another--- it's not so much that.  But it is the stories. The girl-- Avery was her name --was very open about her tastes and fluid gender preferences and her adventures. But she's a beautiful girl. She can get away with those stories.

I of course am male and of a Certain Age. I'm of a different generation, and I am embarrassed and anxious about the stories I told her. Who heard them? What effect might they have had on how the bar staff regard me?  Did the bar staff believe the stories? Is it worse if they thought I was making some of it up? If they thought all of it was true, would they look down on me? What exactly am I afraid of-- reputation? Being told I'm not welcome at the bar? Did random customers complain about the stories Avery and I told? 

There are things I've done in my life that do make for good stories, but I've suddenly become anxious about my reputation and how I'm regarded downtown. I want to be the flaneur, the quiet figure who sits and has a drink or two and occasionally has a conversation. The stories I'd tell a lovely girl as part of a seduction or a flirtation-- those seem increasingly likely to marginalize me. 

I  spent a lot of weekend mornings at the hipster cafe. Very good fresh croissants, very good flat whites, very skilled bar staff. But I can't go back now. I'm afraid of what the staff might think of me. And, no, this is not about any age difference. Avery asked my age early on and thought the number was irrelevant, or at least amusing. It's not about that at all.

I will miss the hipster cafe. Just as I miss the oyster bar on the plaza. But right now I can't face what the staff might think of me.