5. Mr. Perfect Ass
MR. PERFECT ASS
I liked working in cafes that made me feel like I had somewhere important to be.
It was a Tuesday, which meant nothing was actually happening—but I still opened my MacBook like I had deadlines, emails, and a life that required urgency.
I sat by the window at Bluebird, sunlight spilling across my table in that soft, flattering way that made everything felt a little more expensive than it probably was.
The place was known for its aesthetics—arching floor-to-ceiling windows, clean white walls, everything bright in a way that felt curated but effortless.
It smelled like butter and coffee and something sweet I couldn’t name.
Not the artificial kind, but the real kind that clung to your clothes just enough for people to think you were a legitimate café hopper.
Bluebird wasn’t known by the crowd, but it was never empty either. There were always people like me: laptops open, AirPods in, pretending to work harder than we actually were.
I looked around to amuse myself.
A girl in linen typed aggressively in one corner, like she was ending a relationship over email. Two guys in oversized polos discussed something that sounded like a startup no one asked for. A couple shared pancakes like they had nowhere else to be, or nowhere better.
But even in my cynic mind, something about this café made me feel very New York, even though I had never been to New York—fast, aesthetically pleasing, slightly self-important, of course. Everyone seemed to be performing something, though no one could quite say what.
Perhaps it was just the lingering influence of the colonizers.
And when nothing else caught my interest, I leaned back against the couch and stared at my screen. The cursor blinked on the Excel file I was working on, like it was waiting for me to become someone more productive.
I wasn’t.
I was just… here.
Comfortable. Quiet. Unbothered.
And for a moment, it felt like maybe my life was finally starting to settle into something soft, or something easy—
The door opened.
I didn’t look up immediately. People came in and out all the time. That was the whole point of places like this. No one stayed. No one truly mattered.
But when I did look, my body reacted before my brain could catch up.
My stomach dropped.
And not a gentle drop. Not a nervous flutter.
A full, sudden, violent drop—like missing a step in the dark.
I froze.
There he was.
Ex #1.
My college ex.
Francis.
And as if the universe wasn’t done humiliating me, he saw me immediately. No hesitation, no confusion—his eyes landed on me like they had always known where to look.
Then he smiled.
I didn’t smile back. I couldn’t.
My body went into full shutdown, like my brain had unplugged itself just to avoid processing what was happening. And before I could ever recover, he started walking toward me.
“There you are,” he said, like he had just found something he misplaced that morning.
I stared at him, completely blank. No thoughts. Just panic in high definition.
He tilted his head, still smiling. “Do you remember me?”
That snapped me out of the trance or whatever humiliation-induced paralysis I was in.
I blinked, shaking myself awake. “Yeah,” I said quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah of course.”
Up close, Francis looked exactly like himself—just more refined, more certain.
His face still had that clean, square shape I used to trace my eyes when he wasn’t looking.
His hair was neatly styled, nothing trendy or experimental like mine.
Just… proper. His eyes were round, soft, and almost intense in a way that didn’t quite match the rest of him.
Because the rest of him had filled out. Not bulky, not overly muscular—just solid. He wore a crisp button-down, sleeves folded neatly to his elbows, paired with tailored slacks.
And then, unfortunately, my brain betrayed me.
Because I remembered something.
That ass.
Still there. Reflected faintly in the mirror by the corner. Still… offensively round and perfect.
He wasn’t called Mr. Perfect Ass in school for no reason.
I looked away.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to sound normal and failing just a little.
He glanced around the café, almost amused. “This place is close to the university,” he said. “I work there, remember?”
Right.
Of course.
He was a professor at our university now.
The thought settled in slowly, bringing something tight and familiar.
Francis had always been like that, even back in college. Disciplined. Focused. The type who didn’t just pass exams but topped them. The type professors loved for his smarts, and the type everyone adored for his height and charm.
“Can I sit?” he asked.
I frowned, still trying to catch up. “No. Why?”
But he was already pulling the chair out. He sat across from me like this was the most normal thing in the world—like we hadn’t been lovers turned into strangers.
He kept that smile, though. Not smug, not mocking. Just… amused.
We looked at each other for a moment too long, the silence stretching just enough to become uncomfortable.
“How are you?” he finally asked, and there was something in his voice that caught me off guard. His question was not casual. Not polite. Something sincere. Something that sounded a little too close to concern.
And the first thought that came to my mind was, “Fuck! He must’ve seen my love-life rants on TikTok for sure!”
There’s something humiliating about your ex seeing the version of you that didn’t survive a breakup.
“I’m fine,” I said. Which was true. Technically. No, I wasn’t. “But I’m so confused,” I added, letting out a small, awkward laugh as I started gathering my things. “I—uh—I have to go.”
I stood up too quickly, reaching for my Andiamo Bottega bag from the chair beside me.
“Wait—”
I was halfway out of the moment when he pulled out his iPhone and gently tapped it against mine. A soft vibration passed between the devices. Quick and seamless. My screen lit up with his contact details.
I froze.
He looked at me, calm as ever. “Ring me if you need someone to talk to,” he said. “Okay?”
I nodded, because I didn’t trust my inner voice anymore.
“I’m serious, James.”
I looked away for half a second before nodding again.
Then I picked up my things—too fast, too messy—and walked out of Bluebird like I hadn’t just been ambushed by my past in broad daylight.
By the weekend, I found myself at a resort I didn’t choose, attending a family day I didn’t belong to.
Mel’s company had rented the place out, which sounded luxurious in theory, but in reality, it was just a lot of employees pretending to relax while keeping their children alive near large bodies of water.
I sat between Andi and Mel on a poolside lounger.
Oversized sunglasses on, iced drink in hand, and trying to convince myself this counted as rest.
Well, it didn’t, because children were everywhere. Screaming. Running. Splashing like they had something to prove.
A cannonball landed three feet away from us, sending a wave of pool water straight onto my legs.
I flinched. “Oh God.”
Andi didn’t even react. She just slowly wiped her arm with a napkin like this was her villain origin story. “I swear to God, if one more child is born today—”
“Andi,” Mel warned.
“They’re aggressively existing!” Andi said, leaning back into her lounger.
Another splash. But it didn’t reach us this time.
“Why are they so wet?” I asked.
“We’re in the pool, James,” Mel said.
“This is exactly why I can’t have kids,” Andi said, watching a group of kids scream their way across the shallower end of the pool.
“Can’t?” I turned to her. “Or won’t?”
“Both,” she said without hesitation. “Spiritually, emotionally, financially—no.”
Mel let out a small laugh, shaking her head. “You’re dramatic.”
“I’m realistic,” Andi shot back. “Look at them.”
We all looked.
One mom stood by the edge of the pool, fully dressed, holding a towel like it was a shield. Her child clung to her leg, dripping, while another one screamed for attention. Somewhere behind her, a dad was on his phone, nodding absentmindedly like he was attending a meeting instead of parenting.
“That doesn’t look like fun,” Andi continued. “That looks like a full-time job with no pay and no resignation letter.”
“It’s a choice,” Mel said, though there was softness in her voice. “Some people want that.”
“Do you?” I asked, turning to her.
Mel shrugged, eyes still on the pool. “Maybe. But not now. Not like urgently, you know.” She paused. “I like the idea of it. Just not the reality I’m seeing.”
“That’s because the reality is patriarchy,” Andi said flatly. “Women are told that having kids is the most fulfilling thing in the world, and then suddenly they’re the default parent. But no. There’s no trophy and no fulfillment. But when the man helps—sometime—everyone claps.”
I snorted. “The bar is on the floor.”
“The bar is in hell,” Andi corrected.
Mel smiled faintly. “It’s not always like that. Don’t you think?”
“No, but it’s often enough,” Andi said. “And the pressure is insane. You hit thirty and suddenly it’s, ‘When are you having kids?’ And not, ‘Do you even want them?’”
I leaned back, adjusting my sunglasses. “I don’t want kids.”
They both looked at me.
I shrugged. “I can barely take care of myself. Imagine adding a small human into that equation.”
“That’s fair,” Mel said.
“And also,” I added, watching another child scream as he ran past us, “I am a power-bottom. So, I never do the fucking.”
The girls laughed and raised their drinks at me in support.
“Pride month ambassador,” Andi said proudly.
“Thank you! I represent the ‘B’ in the LGBT with dignity and grace,” I said. “And by ‘B,’ I meant ‘Bottom.’”
“You absolutely do not represent the community well,” Mel muttered.
I grinned before taking another sip of my drink.
“So,” I said, “how’s the visa process going for both of you?’
Mel sighed. “Still thinking about it.”
“I thought you were set for your master’s in Australia?”
“And leave my life here?”
I shrugged. “That’s kind of how migration works, girly.”
“For me,” Andi said, “I’m still waiting for my company’s instructions.”