Page 84 of Sort of Seeing Someone

“It’s kind of like a massage,” I say. “Except she doesn’t touch you at all.”

“So not like a massage at all,” Ollie sarcastically responds.“Look, you can tell Angeline I’m in for tomorrow morning. But if I do that for you, you’ve got to do something for me.”

Uh-oh.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Help me finish a puzzle. I’ve been working the last six months on this thousand-piece beast of the Amalfi Coast. I’m so close to being done. I just need some fresh eyes. Seriously, I’ll sleep better at night once this thing is complete.”

I know I wasn’t paying close attention to the color of his walls, but I’d like to think I’m familiar now with the entirety of his apartment and I do not recall there being three-quarters of a thousand-piece puzzle sitting out anywhere.

“Fine,” I agree anyway. “What time should I be at your place?”

“It’s not at my place. It’s at this bookstore-slash-brewery-slash-wine bar-slash-ice cream shop called Kibbitznest in Lincoln Park.”

“Kibbitz-wha?”

“Kibbitz. Yiddish for ‘friendly chatter.’”

Right. Of course.

“Anyway, the staff has blocked off a table in the backroom just for me and the Amalfi. But I can tell they want their space back, which is why I need to tag you in and get this thing done. Let’s meet there at 6pm?”

“I’ll see you for somefriendly chatterthen,” I say before setting the phone down on the ledge and sinking my head under water.

I arrive to Kibbitznest and am greeted with a sign on their front door that simply says:Be kind. Dig deep. Search for answers.

It’s no secret that Ollie and I come from two ends of the spectrum. But when I read their mission statement and know that he’s agreed to those terms the same way I have before turning the handle and stepping inside, I feel leveled with him within these walls. I already like this place.

I snake my way through various tables and stacks of books in an effort to make it toward the backroom where I know Ollie and the puzzle are waiting for me. There’s soft jazz music playing in the background. The place is dimly lit with strategically placed reading lamps throughout for a little extra oomph. Almost every chair is filled, but the placestill manages to feel open and peaceful; not crowded and chaotic. There are friends with pint glasses playing Scrabble at one table, a duo playing chess while licking ice cream cones at another, and people reading solo, sipping on wine. The mood is so chill. I can’t believe I’ve never seen this place on social media.

Entranced by it all, I physically bump into Ollie who is at the bar ordering some wine.

“There you are,” he says, instantly placing a kiss on my lips as if he gets bonus points for speed to market. “Red or white?”

“Surprise me,” I say, knowing full well, he already has.

I leave him to order and turn the corner to the backroom. There are two chairs and a table, on top ofwhich a puzzle is taking up most of the surface. In the free space is the most beautifulcharcuterie board I’ve ever seen with billowing piles of prosciutto, sliced cheeses, and a colorful assortment of jams and spreads. It’s on a wooden board engraved with the words THE HOTEL BROCKMEIER. I don’t know how much he paid the banquet chef for this masterpiece, but I’m grateful...and I’m starving.

“Plot twist: I got a Brut,” Ollie says as he enters the room holding an uncorked bottle and two flutes. “This wine is called:Us. Felt fitting.”

“How did you decide on a bubbly?”

“We’regoingto finish this puzzle. I think that alone calls for a celebration. Besides, the only other bottle they had on special tonight was a red called ‘Prisoner.’ I didn’t think that was a good omen. Cheers.”

We clink our glasses and for the umpteenth time, I soak in all that Ollie is. Dark denim jeans, a light denim button down with pearl snaps. His sleeves are rolled up just enough to show this puzzle that he means business—and to show me the peridot bracelet he bought months ago is still part of his every-day wear.

Between bites of cheese-covered crackers and sips of the crispest sparkling wine I’ve had in ages, we get to work on the puzzle. I place my first piece within 30 seconds, which apparently is a serious turn-on.

“That’s pretty hot,” he says.

“You know what would help move this along?” I ask, snapping another piece into place. “Googling an image of this puzzle box before thirty years of sun-washing compromised our only clue into a deeply faded oblivion.”

“I don’t disagree,” he says.

I grab my phone and realize there’s no service in the backroom. So I take a moment and attempt to connect to their Wi-Fi, looking for the book bar’s router name. Nothing comes up.

“Never mind. It appears that we are in a black hole,” I say, showing Ollie theNo Serviceicon of death.

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