When I was younger I used to be so happy to be able to find a significant others whose interests match mine. That I was so displeased when I found out the fact that they pretended to enjoy those things only to get my attention (some people might also consider this as a sign of love but I beg to differ, you’ll understand at some point on this piece of writing). Liking my favorite bands, quoting my favorite authors, they have done researches on materials I like.
And then somehow I happened to meet this one person who is the total opposite of me. My other side of coin, whose way of thinking differ so much from me to the point I ask myself, “Why do I like him again?” from time to time. The big age-gap, the foods we like, our music taste there was no match and sometimes it becomes a small, minor problem.
“Huh, latte drinker,” He sighed, shook his head after looking at how I drink my warm Vanilla Latte with gusto amidst the chaos: icy-cold winter weather outside, familiar people’s noises with Christmas carol as the background, and how people waiting in line outside made us feel bad and needed to go out as soon as we finish this drink.
I squinted my eyes. Again, he bantered with me about the things I enjoy which he wouldn’t be able to. I pointed my forefinger into his Iced Americano. “You know I can drink that, but I don’t like it,” I said.
“I don’t understand why people love latte. It’s too sweet.”
My jaw dropped. It wasn’t sweet at all, but we’ve bickered about it a little too much. Perhaps those pairs next to us were already tired from eavesdropping. It’s not that deep, come on. I said it like I could hear their minds. I could, though.
“It’s just people’s preferences. You have to let people enjoy things. Like I enjoy my latte”
He raised one of his eyebrows. “Why do I have to understand people? You know I’m a sociopath.”
He is.
“Yeah, I know.”
“And you’re okay with the fact that I’m a sociopath?”
My expression stayed the same. “Yes, I’m okay. I knew it from the start.”
“But you know I put a lot of effort not to be one anymore.”
I gazed to that caramel-brown colored eyes of his. “And that’s why. I know you’ll come to a point that you’ll understand why I could like different things from you. Without having to enjoy latte, but you could respect what I like. And that’s maturing.”
We stopped talking for at least two ’til three minutes. Then I suddenly felt not so well. “My stomach hurts, and I’m feeling nauseous.”
He laughed. “And for me, maturing is not drinking latte because I know I’m a lactose intolerant.” Okay, he won.
Maybe I need to learn how to enjoy an Americano.
