Joe White
​
The hottest restaurant on M-483, Cave, is receiving a steady stream of diners today, as always. The decor is a blend of minimalism and organic aesthetics, featuring a low geodesic dome, warm desert sunset tones, and faint ice-green fog lights that carry a minty scent, offering comfort to the homesick.
Joe White, Harbour's youngest lead programmer, sits at a table for two. His quiet, formal demeanor contrasts with the restaurant's lively atmosphere. Dressed in a crisp cotton shirt, white pants, and spotless olive-green canvas shoes, his amber eyes remain partially hidden beneath his tousled bangs. He glances at the empty seat across from him, checks his watch, exhales softly, then absentmindedly straightens the knife and fork he has already adjusted numerous times.
"Ma'am, welcome to Cave," a red-haired woman announces. Dressed in a gold-fringed dress, she flamboyantly shrugs off her even more extravagant fur coat. Her spiked high-heeled boots clack against the floor as she strides toward Joe. The moment she steps onto the floor tile divider, an overwhelming wave of perfume engulfs him. He suppresses a cough and rises to greet her.
"Oh dear, this place is fantastic!" She leans in close, planting two faint lipstick marks on Joe's cheeks.
"How are you, Venessa?" He resists the urge to wipe his face and pulls out a chair for her before sitting down. Once again, he adjusts his knife and fork.
"I'm fine! ... Let me see the menu." She eagerly snatches it from the waiter's hands, flipping back and forth through the pages. "Well, I mean, you haven't contacted me since our last date, and I thought you—"
"I've been busy with work lately," Joe interjects.
Venessa smiles, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Oh yeah, I figured. But still, I was worried. You know, online dating has never really been my thing, and my past experiences meeting people in person haven't been great."
Her fingers idly trace the edges of the menu, curling it into the shape of a snail shell. Joe watches her fidgeting hands, running his own hand through his hair in discomfort.
"You're the first person I've actually wanted to meet offline," he admits. "I've been on dates before... but only with work partners."
Venessa orders a Chinese noodle soup and nonchalantly places the menu on the table, downing her soda in one gulp. "That must be tough. Would you really want to be with someone who shares both your workplace and your life? That sounds suffocating."
"We didn't really argue much," Joe replies, staring at the straw bubbling in his drink.
"Wouldn't that get boring? So you broke up, then? If you don't mind me asking."
Venessa leans forward, intrigued.
"It's okay," Joe says with a sharp smile. "She and I knew each other well. In fact, she probably knew me better than I knew myself. It wasn’t boring. She helped me understand myself, or maybe even reshaped me... and reshaped herself too."
"And then?" Venessa prompts.
"My parents didn't approve of her," Joe says simply, passing Venessa a polished spoon. She studies his face as she cracks the chocolate shell of the pre-dinner snack, revealing oozing peanut butter and pomegranate juice.
"Oh, poor Joe," she murmurs. "Anyone who comes to M-483 has to carry some extra weight."
Joe watches the peanut butter slowly drip down the pristine white dish, as if it were molten lava bubbling in a volcano.
"Look at me, Joe." Venessa suddenly grabs his hand, her index finger brushing across his cheek. "I don't care about any of that."
Joe freezes at her touch.
"The first time I saw you, I was overwhelmed with happiness, like I’d won the lottery," she continues, locking eyes with him. "I want us to have something long-term, something stable—if you'll let me."
Joe stares at her blankly.
"No pressure, of course," Venessa adds. "Even if you don't feel the same way, I'm—"
"Oh no, Venessa, it’s not that," Joe interrupts. "I’m sorry you had to bring this up. I was the one who asked you out. It’s just... I've never been with someone I’ve known for a while. I always worry they won’t understand my habits."
Her fingers gently stroke his palm. "You overthink things, Joe. You care too much about how others see you, and you ignore what they truly feel."
Joe exhales. "Maybe."
"I understand you, Joe. You like to be direct. You wear your heart on your sleeve."
Venessa’s cat-like eyes gleam as she gazes at him. The moment of shared intensity lingers. Joe, on impulse, reaches out and wipes a smudge of peanut butter from her lips.
They return to Joe’s apartment drunk and laughing. Venessa strokes Joe’s curls, places a soft kiss on his forehead. He trails his hand along her leg as she kisses her way down to his lips. Joe hasn’t felt this overwhelmed in a long time. His pulse quickens. He presses her against the wall, and she tightens her grip on his head, their tongues entwining.
And then—
Joe’s mind clears in a sudden, sobering rush. His stomach lurches.
He pulls away abruptly, stumbling into the bathroom, and vomits.
Joe doesn't remember how Venessa left or how he cleaned himself up. He wanders into the living room, tidies the disheveled couch, smooths the wrinkles in the tablecloth, and finally sits in silence at his workbench.
He remains in the dark for a long time before whispering, "Turn on Vosga."
His computer wakes instantly. The screen flickers from white to black. A small dot appears, growing larger and larger as it inches closer.
In the stillness of the Nor’easter-lit room, a voice—female, familiar—speaks.
"Long time no see, Joe."
Joe doesn't turn to face the screen. Instead, he bows his head.
"I've missed you," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.
​
by Lamu Xiangqiu 10.26.2020