Reflections on a Quarter-life Crisis

A Way Out?

"You are cynical, my friend," the young physicist said to me jokingly while pointing with the one finger he had lifted off of his half-empty beer. I light-heartedly agreed with him though I understood that he was more right than he knew. "Why so cynical?"

            My two semesters of physics brought me about 10 minutes through his conversation but, after that, I was lost. I took a sip of my rosé and scanned the bar while the physicist yammered on. He was about 5'8", just a couple inches above me in my kelly-green, patent leather peep-toe pumps. I looked at him as he talked but listened very little to what he was saying. His wrinkly blue button-down attempted to mask the dinginess of the white t-shirt underneath, worn-out from too many washings; the last button wasn't align. Isn't this guy a physicist? Can't he button his own damn shirt? I opened my mouth to tell him about the button mishap but realized he was really only talking to himself and had practically forgotten I was there. I paused for a moment, mouth ajar, and re-assumed the listening position. I smiled as I judged the greasy tips of his hair... I mean, why were the tips greasy? Doesn't the grease come from the roots? Shake it off, Tara. The boy is talking to you. He went for sip of his beer (which he had been nursing for longer than socially acceptable by now) and I pounced on my opportunity to interject. "Oh, so you're here for the research in Cern... A couple of friends and I are going to have an end-of-the-world party the night before they turn the thing on and if the world still exists the next day, we can have a celebration party for it," I said, giggling and not letting the wine in my hand hamper my over-zealous hand motions.

            "First off, that thing you are referring to is a particle accelerator. Furthermore, the world really isn't going to end, I hope you realize. We've done this experiment many times before on much smaller scales. This one has just received a lot more media attention because it involves more people and is something to look forward to."

            Yeah, guy. It was a joke. Do you think I'd be here reluctantly tolerating you right now if I actually believed the world was going to end? No way... especially with someone who ends their sentences in a preposition. Ok, I'm out for real this time.

            I scanned the room looking for my way out of this conversation, or lack thereof. The combination of the lighting and the paint gave the room a terra cotta appearance which surprisingly fit with the juxtaposed wood floor and wavy art deco bar on which I leaned. My peripheral vision spotted Peyton not too far behind me chatting with some of the others from our group. His jacket was already draped over his arm although I could tell he just recently come in from the cold by the undertones of blue in his face. His normally rosy complexion had been stolen by the wind's bite but he was regaining blood flow, each time he smiled. I could hear his laugh over all the others'.

            The physicist was still zealously talking at me so I took a backwards step along the bar, putting myself into a convex groove of the counter. With his next couple of hand motions, he moved a step closer bridging the recently formed gap. Another attempt on my part was fruitless so, finally, I excused myself to the ladies' room.

I smiled politely to the girl waiting in line in front of me. "Bon Soir," I said tipping my head in her direction. She reciprocated a smile as the door behind her creaked open and my new friend was gone. I teased my hair in the mirror, tossing it about. Voluminous. After dabbing a bit of crystal red lip gloss, I ascended the bar stairs and nonchalantly scanned the room for Peyton. Ding! Ding! Target found.

I downed a sip of my wine and wiped the corners of my lips. The thin wine swayed in my glass as I tried to gracefully approach him while not revealing that I was consciously trying for this. "Hey boy," I said with a coy smile hiding secrets behind my teeth, "How ya doin'?"

"Not too bad. Those guys you were talking to were, well, short," he teased.

"Yeah, you're right. I like my men about 6 feet and half an inch."

"Well, isn't that a coincidence? That is my exact height," he retorted with a grin.

I lifted my wine and turned my body to leave, "Hmmm... quite the coincidence."

He winked and shook his head at me. I still hadn't decided if I liked the winking but our encounter caused tingles in the bottom of my spine made me forget all about the winking.