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I always blush and look away every time we make direct eye contact. He always wins the silent staring contests. He is beautiful. I gently pull away from his neck and we’re staring one another in the eyes. He makes a fool of me once more as I look away down to my hands I just clasped in my lap. He holds them both and whispers my name. I feel his warm breath on my face, going increasingly red in the face. The way I can switch from being confident, or nothing but putty in his hands is astounding. His coffee breath, his square front teeth, his scruffy facial hair, his thick glasses. I want to look up but I don’t want to look him in the eye. My senses are becoming overwhelmed. My face flushes an impossible red and my heart pumps so loud that I’m surprised he doesn’t mention the sound. “Want to do something fun?” he teases. One hand still on my clasped hands, he uses the other to lift a piece of stray hair from my face. We’re all made to believe this is love. He’s a vision, an absolute. ‘Hello there,’ He said. ‘Dr. Miller told me a little about you.’ I could tell he was gay from his lisp and mannerisms (not that I had a problem with a person’s sexual orientation). We talked for a long while. He told me about how he was a struggling artist in his time. His financial troubles were the main reason he chose to freeze himself. I explained to him that my reason for doing it was similar to his, except I wasn’t an artist. We kept talking even as I ate. It didn’t take long for me to decide that Keith was an okay guy. He never tried to seduce me in any way, so I felt pretty comfortable around him. We quickly became friends. The women sitting at the table with us were mostly quiet because they wanted to hear about our experiences in the past. They probably saw this as an extraordinary opportunity to not only get to know a few men (a rare commodity), but to also learn about the distant past from two people who were actually there. Keith froze himself about seventy years after I.
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