Prescience

The first thing that greeted Lyla upon opening the door to Third Rail Coffee was the scent of freshly brewed coffee. The subtle clanking of coffee mugs and squeals of the frother were providing some background noise, albeit cacophonous. The calming, muted grey walls of the coffee shop were decorated with all kinds of coffee-related plaques and knickknacks. There were chestnut tabletops and black metal stools. It was quaint and cute; she found it comforting that Frederick had suggested meeting in a well-lit, public place for the feature interview.

Lyla had admittedly looked up Chartreuse Literary Magazine only after agreeing to be a feature in it. As an upbeat, liberal magazine full of political think-pieces, poetry, photography, and prose, it seemed to check out. Lyla always thought that literary magazines had to be submitted to, but someone from this one had sought her out. She chalked it up to destiny. She hadn’t planned on meeting Frederick on the side of the street, nor him recognizing her as a blogger. He’d addressed her by her pen name, Lyla D. Thinks, and pitched the feature opportunity to her on the spot. Their brief conversation led her to the coffee shop, wondering what the nature of the interview would be.

Frederick was almost ten minutes late. Trying not to be uptight about it, Lyla figured there was nothing better to do with idle time than a photo op. In the golden hour, she thought the sunlight bathed her skin beautifully as it gave her brown skin an orange tint. She took advantage of the opportune, natural lighting and captured the occasion by grinning for a selfie. She admired herself briefly, then tried another angle. Just as she snapped the picture, she noticed a figure approaching her.  

“Lyla?” Frederick addressed her, extending a hand as he took his seat. He smiled warmly at her, easing into the cushioned chair. He set a notebook, a pen, and a blue highlighter onto the table. “Taking a new pic for your blog?”

“Yes, hi!” Lyla fumbled with her phone and freed her hand, somewhat embarrassed to have been caught taking a selfie -- although that was kind of her thing anyway. “And not really, I just look good today.”

“Yes-- that’s true.” He paused. “Thanks for being able to meet on such short notice,” he said, having never diverted his eyes. They looked inviting, shielded by his wire-frame glasses. “The new issue is released in two weeks, but I’m going to expedite this story.”

“No, of course. Thank you for offering me a feature story in your literary magazine. That’s crazy,” Lyla said just as she was putting her phone away.

“I had to! Between all those passionate articles, and the Q&A videos you make, there’s no one here that’s doing it like you. It’s only fair to try to get you some recognition.” Frederick assessed her from across the table and stroked his scruffy beard. He grinned at her as he continued to set up his space. He placed his phone on the table with the recording app opened. “Anywho, I think Chartreuse Lit Mag is an awesome fit for you.”

“I’m so grateful for the opportunity. I really wasn’t expecting anyone to know who I was at all, let alone be noticed in person for my blog.” Lyla offered him a meager smile, unable to hold his steady gaze.  He wore a half-smile as he waited for her. “So, is this just an interview?”

“Yeah, I’ve got my set of questions I want to ask. And it’s cool if we end up going out of order, so no pressure.” Frederick leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “Tell me a little bit about how you got started. What encouraged you to become a lifestyle blogger?”

“Because I’m very fun at parties,” she said sardonically. “I’ve always had a lot to say about everything. Not everyone wants to hear it. So, instead of forcing people to have hard conversations… I just talk to myself.” Lyla laughed. “You know, without looking like a crazy person.”

Once he broke the ice with her through general questions, they chatted easily like old friends. Lyla was relieved that it turned out to be more of a conversation than an interrogation. She ended up divulging some personal history that organically answered some of his questions. Every so often, Frederick would write something down amidst her talking. Half of the time, Lyla couldn’t even remember anything interesting that she’d said.

“So, what I have here is that you’re a fiery, opinionated, badass woman... I’ve read some of your blog, and you can be brutal. That one about how lesbians can objectify women too? You really didn’t hold back; it was awesome. Or the one about… I think it was dismantling male entitlement? Really ace stuff. I feel bad for anyone who gets on your bad side.” Frederick laughed. “But my question to you is, would you consider yourself a writer?”

 “Oh, of course. I graduated as an American Studies major with a double minor in Creative Writing and Gender and Women’s Studies. Writing has always been one of my favorite things to do. I started my blog based on think-pieces inspired from books, movies, and my life experiences in general. It began as a personal project, and I’m shocked to see how Lyla D. Thinks has taken off.”

“Superstar,” he said, almost playfully. His eyes sparkled, and his thin lips were fixed into a smirk. “So, you were always probably going to end up like this. That’s awesome. Who would you say has inspired you?”

As she delved into her answers with thoughtful and impassioned replies, Frederick continued to take notes. The scratching of his cheap pen against the paper was distracting her. It seemed that he was writing with intrigue, scribbling line after line quickly -- as if he didn’t want to forget. When he laid down his pen, he fixed his eyes on her and didn’t look away. Lyla often shifted uncomfortably and broke his trance. When she looked back, she often looked right into it again.

Despite those recurring awkward instances, Lyla was getting into her groove. He had come up with some pretty good questions. She was excited to answer them. Her initial replies felt stilted and restrained, and she didn’t want to be disingenuous. She’d abandoned her compulsion to mold herself into a palatable brand and instead became more of herself around him.

“I’ll tell you something: this place is crawling with imposters. New York is chock full of phonies who wish they had something interesting to say, but don’t. Everyone wants to be something they are not. I’ve done so many features on people who only think that they’re interesting.” Frederick paused and gawked at her for a moment more. ”You actually are. ”

“Oh,” Lyla murmured, breaking into a shy smile. “Thank you--”

“Authenticity is a quality, not a compliment,” he said, looking at her up and down. “But… I could think of a few real things to compliment you on…”

“Oh.” She said it differently this time.

“I see you.” Frederick assured her, then glanced back at his notes. “How did you build your following?”

As Lyla gave her answer, she wanted to make eye contact, but he was just so persistent in his gaze. She was starting to think that a two-person coffee table was too intimate of a space to conduct an interview. His intensity caused her to look down most of the time. She’d been more acquainted with the table as a result.

As she was speaking, she noticed how Frederick was hanging onto her every word. He was absorbed by her, and not because he was getting good material for the magazine. Lyla felt that she had just given him some good quotes, but he was no longer focusing on the note taking. She was getting really tired of him staring at her; she bit her lip and had half a mind to ask what the hell he was looking at.

But Lyla had been accused of reading too deeply into things multiple times before. She didn’t want to sabotage her opportunity by going off on him for staring -- it wasn’t like he was downright ogling her chest or anything -- but he was making her uncomfortable. She tried to pinpoint the source of her discomfort because eye contact wasn’t necessarily a crime. All she could attribute it to thus far were vibes. Something about him was off, even if she couldn’t put a name on it. She narrowed her eyes and crossed her legs, then shifted again .

“I’ll be right back.” Lyla said, promptly standing to head over to the counter.

 She recentered herself on the short walk there. Lyla felt that perhaps she was getting too into her head but also felt certain that the guy was a creep. It wasn’t that she was ever afraid to be called a bitch, it was just that she wanted to feel justified every time she confronted someone. But she just didn’t know if the reasoning was there.

Throughout the brief transaction, she was hesitant to look over her shoulder for the sake of finding him already staring back at her. Once she received her chai tea latte, she took as much time as possible to spruce it up. Slowly ripping open the sugar packets. Stirring without urgency. Bringing it to her lips for a taste without regard for the man she’d abandoned at the table. She gave herself a pep talk before rejoining him. Sometimes, the problem was her interpretation. Hence, she decided to view their interactions more critically.

“Welcome back. Now, the truth,” Frederick requested, like he was oblivious to her new icy gaze.

“Right. Um… It definitely won’t be in six months, or even a year from now... But it’s always been my dream to break into the publishing industry someday. I want to learn the ropes so I can master them later. I know that I’m probably more VICE and Buzzfeed than The New York Times, but I’d still like to think of myself as a serious writer,” Lyla said somewhat distantly. She continued to stir her drink even after she was sure it was all settled.

“Let me tell you, Lyla D. Thinks is going to be a name people remember. You are a serious writer. You are here,” Frederick assured her, placing a rough hand atop of hers on the table.

Every hair stood tall on her arms. “You think so?” Lyla reiterated, sliding her hand from beneath his without much subtlety. She side-eyed him, but said nothing. This time.

“Without a doubt. I’m glad I’m the one that gets to do this feature. I want to see you — really see you. So far… I’m liking everything I see.”

Lyla noticed the way his eyes flickered up back to hers. Their previous focus wasn’t lost on her. Considering the draft, maybe she could’ve afforded to put on a bra with that camisole and blouse. She merely retrieved her cardigan from the back of her seat and slipped it on. She furrowed her brow, trying to decide how to gauge her retaliation. Again, she thought of how she’d end up forfeiting her place in the magazine if she played it incorrectly.

“I mean, I am good-looking,” she admitted with a defiant stare. “But keep your eyes up here.”

Her confidence was a trick; if she’d learned anything about men, it was that playing into the attraction usually caused it to lessen. But Frederick’s grin just widened. She felt smaller then.

“That’s true,” he said, smirking as he made a show of giving her the once-over. “You’ve got a lot going for you, that’s for sure.”

“Maybe so.” Lyla ignored his charismatic grin and fluffed her afro. She clasped her hands together on the table.

There was a beat of silence that stretched a little too long. Frederick continued to look at Lyla with an intensity that made her uneasy. He copied her stance, then caressed the curvature of her slack palm as he nodded. She snatched her hand away immediately. She wondered what possessed him to mimic intimacy in their first encounter, what gave him the right.

“You don’t have to touch me.” Lyla kept her poise, but her heart was knocking against her ribcage. “Do you have another question, or what?”

Frederick looked at her, but didn’t entertain the remark. For the first time, he willingly looked away. “I looked over your blog posts on my way over here, and you have a real gift. You make people want to keep reading because you confront things head-on without being preachy. You get your idea across without being condescending,” Frederick said, fully concentrated on the notebook. He met her eyes again. “And for what it’s worth… I don’t think you’re very Buzzfeed at all. You could be a New York Times writer if you wanted.”

“Thank you.” Lyla stuttered, but recovered. She placed both hands in her lap. She was playing the game, and she finally had an advantage. She was preparing to lay into him, but then he said something unrelated and kind. “I… I don’t know what to say. I wasn’t expecting that. Thank you.”

“People like you change things for everyone.” Frederick continued to praise her, smiling and maintaining his stare over the rim of his glasses.

There was a gleam in his eye that made Lyla feel somewhat special to be on the receiving end of it. She wondered if he meant the kind things he’d said, or if he was simply playing the game as well.

“You know, I think I’ve got mostly everything I need. You gave me a bunch of great material to use.” Frederick sat erect in his chair. He stood up and extended his hand. Lyla only flinched a little bit. “I can’t wait for you to see it.”

Lyla daintily shook his hand but let go quickly. “Thank you so much. I’m so excited, I—”

Frederick grasped her shoulder with his other hand and caressed her. “You’re going to be a superstar. I can get you a proof by the end of the week. It should be live by next Thursday. Why don’t you come by the office to get first dibs on the prints?” He reached for his phone.

Lyla’s words hitched in her throat. She wanted to address her boundaries, but felt that the moment had passed. She overtly put a few more inches between them. “Um… Sure. I--I can come later this week. What’s the address?”

“Here, I’ll email it to you now.” Frederick typed for a moment, then Lyla’s phone pinged.

“The Highvale Apartments?” Lyla read aloud what her GPS had designated. She had to grip her phone tighter because of her sweaty palms.

“Well, yeah, I work from home often. You could stop by... We could go over everything to make sure I have your approval… And then... Wine? Dinner? I’m a fantastic cook.”

The shift hit her in a wave of repulsion. She would be lying if she said she hadn’t seen it coming, but she thought she was winning. Nonetheless, the audacity he had still threw her off. How could he be so presumptuous? Hadn’t he noticed her resistance? Didn’t he pick up on her discomfort? How she changed the subject and shied away from his touch?

If the sudden hammering in her chest was any indication, Lyla knew what was coming. Her mouth was dry as she briefly imagined the events looming ahead: the admission that he’d gotten the wrong idea, the back-pedaling and saving face, the awkward goodbye.

Lyla was devastated by her failure to establish clear boundaries. Somehow, she’d given him the green light. She wrote about situations like these all the time; how could she let it happen to her? She had her chance to prove herself, to be the woman she projected, and she choked. Even worse than choking -- she froze. She didn’t stumble over her words in calling him out -- she said nothing. She was sickened by her complacency.

Before such situations truly unfold, there’s always an acute awareness of the transgression. Lyla thought that she’d be so riled up that the only option would be to lash out, to brazenly address the situation and antagonize him for it; that would undoubtedly earn her the title of the empowered woman, wouldn’t it? She had the chance to be that fiery, opinionated, badass woman that he, and so many others, thought she was.

Maybe she’d just been pretending.

Frederick remedied his proposal after being met with silence. “Or… I could just mail it to you…”

 What happened next empowered Lyla in the distant way that finally chopping off split ends tends to: sacrificing the illusion for the growth.

“Damn right you’re mailing it. That was so inappropriate, Frederick.”

Lyla was stern in her acknowledgment. She chose her words carefully to articulate how uncomfortable his staring had made her feel, how he was not doing his job, and how he should’ve stuck to the script. In lieu of the public backlash, Frederick reacted well enough. He didn’t exacerbate the situation by becoming defensive. Frederick apologized for reading the signs wrong, then opted to have someone else mail her the proofs for the new issue instead.

Lyla got no satisfaction from the aftermath of the encounter. She watched him leave with a clenched jaw, disgusted with herself infinitely more than she had been with him. The knowledge that her militant expectations weren’t always feasible softened her a little. She decided to give herself grace as her breathing slowed. In an attempt to regain her control, she solemnly retrieved her iPhone and prepared to draft her most honest reflection to date: Sometimes You Can’t Speak Up, and That’s Okay.