“Hey Tyler, over here!” Says Megan, waving at me with a long, lithe arm. “Come sit with us!” She’s at a table in the corner of the cafeteria, surrounded by a gaggle of attractive female friends, all looking suspiciously innocent.
I make my way toward them, threading through cheap plastic tables packed with buzzing tech workers, who wolf down food as they excitedly debate the most boring software topics in history—arguments about indentation rules and semantically meaningful whitespace. I grin, face gripped by mirth. My lunchtime conversation promises to be much more interesting.
I reach the corner table, heart barely skiping a beat as I slide muscular legs between Megan and her friend Jess. Our thighs rub against each other on the crowded bench. “Ladies,” I say, setting down my tray to unwrap a sandwich.
“Gentleman,” says Megan, dropping her springy voice down to a mock baritone as she puffs out her chest. The pantomime draws a fit of laughter from her peers. “So how’s it going, Tye-Tye?” She leans forward, forearms steepled over her lunch, emboldened.
I smile in spite of myself. “Who’s Tye-Tye?”
“Soooo uptight.” Megan rolls her eyes. “How about Mr T? Can I call you that instead?”