Chapter 1: Neon Flirtations and a Napkin Proposal
The neon pink awning buzzed like a trapped insect against the twilight, staining the cobblestones a faint, ephemeral rose. Inside Café Neříkej to Mámě, the air was thick with the scent of dark roast and something floral, maybe lavender from the candles guttering in jam jars on each mismatched table. The walls, papered in faded Czech tourism posters from the 1970s, seemed to lean in, absorbing the murmur of conversations in English, Spanish, and a Slavic rhythm Matthew was still trying to decipher.
He hunched over his textbook, the cheerful yellow cover of Čeština pro cizince at odds with the knot in his shoulders. His finger traced a line of text. ‘Jak se máš?’ How are you? A stupid, basic question. He was fine. He was in Prague. He was free. He repeated it like a mantra, but the ghost of Billy’s last text—you’ll never manage without me—seemed to pulse from his phone, face-down on the table.
“Another coffee?”
The voice was warm, lightly accented. Matthew looked up. The waiter stood there, a dish towel slung over a forearm that looked like it knew its way around a few weights. He had a kind, open face, short-cropped brown hair, and a small scar through his left eyebrow.
“Yeah. Please. Děkuji,” Matthew said, fumbling the ‘thank you.’
“No problem,” the waiter said, his smile easy. He glanced at the textbook. “Studying hard. Good for you. It is a… a beast of a language.” He collected the empty cup, his movements efficient and quiet.
Matthew watched him walk back to the bar. He’d been coming here for two weeks, drawn by the quiet and the unambiguous rainbow flag in the window. It was a refuge from his apartment, which was currently saturated with the confusing energy of his roommate, Jake. Jake, who walked around shirtless after the gym, all easy laughter and straight-guy confidence. Jake, who’d sling an arm around Matthew’s shoulders while they watched a game, leaving a patch of skin tingling long after he’d moved away. It was pathetic. Matthew knew it was pathetic. He was a cliché, nursing a crush on his presumably straight roommate while trying to outrun his manipulative ex. He took his emotional baggage very seriously.
The waiter—Karel, according to his nametag—brought the fresh coffee. “Careful, it’s hot,” he said, not immediately leaving. His eyes crinkled. “You are from America? The accent.”
“Austin, Texas,” Matthew said, bracing for the usual comments.
“Ah. Cowboys and… what is the other thing? Big hair?” Karel’s eyes glinted.
“Neither, in my experience,” Matthew said, a real smile tugging at his mouth. “Just a lot of breakfast tacos and regret.”
Karel laughed, a rich, genuine sound. “Regret is universal. But your tacos, I think, are not.” He gave a little nod and moved to another table.
The exchange left Matthew feeling oddly seen, a tiny pinprick of light in the fog of his own head. He tried to return to his book, to the declension of nouns, but his mind wandered back to the apartment. Jake was probably having people over. He’d invited Matthew, of course, in that offhand way of his. “Just some folks from work, dude. Beers. You should come.” But the thought of making polite conversation with a bunch of charismatic English teachers, of watching Jake be effortlessly charming with some date, made his stomach clench. He’d chosen the textbook instead.
Karel passed by again, clearing a nearby table. He caught Matthew’s eye. “It is not so interesting, that book,” he said.
“It’s brutal,” Matthew admitted, closing it. “I’ve been here six months and I still sound like a toddler with a head injury.”
“Everyone does at first. You live here?”
“Teaching English. Like every other twenty-something running from their student loans.”
“And is it working? The running?” Karel asked, leaning a hip against the empty chair. It wasn’t prying. It sounded like he actually wanted to know.
Matthew considered the ghost of Billy, the ache of Jake. “Some days are better than others. Today the coffee is good. That’s a win.”
“A small win is still a win,” Karel said. He paused, as if weighing a decision. Then he pulled out the chair and sat, folding his arms on the table. “Okay. Let’s practice. No book. You ask me a question. In Czech.”
Matthew’s heart did a silly little flutter. This was just friendly, helpful service. It wasn’t a thing. “Uh. Okay.” He swallowed. ‘Jak se jmenujete?’ What’s your name? Too basic. ‘Odkud jste?’ Where are you from? He knew that. He pointed at Karel’s nametag. “Karel. So. ‘Kde bydlíš, Karele?’”
Karel’s eyebrows shot up. “Not bad! The vocative case. Very formal.” He shifted into Czech, his voice slowing, the words rounding in his mouth. “Bydlím tady, v Praze. Na Žižkově. A ty? Bydlíš s kamarády?”
Matthew concentrated, parsing the sounds. I live here, in Prague. In Žižkov. And you? Do you live with friends? “Ano. Bydlím s… jedním kamarádem. Jake.” He felt his cheeks heat. “He is… přímý.” Straight.
Karel held his gaze for a second, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded. “Rozumím. I understand.” He switched back to English, his tone lightening. “So, your Czech is not so terrible. You just need practice. Conversation. Not with a book.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Maybe I can help,” Karel said. He leaned back, the chair creaking. “There is a party. This Saturday. At Ankali. It is a queer dance night. Not so full of teachers running from debt. More… locals. Artists. People who are not toddlers with head injuries.” He repeated Matthew’s phrase with a smirk. “You should come. It would be good for you. More fun than a textbook.”
Matthew’s first instinct was to deflect, to make a joke, to say he was busy. He heard Billy’s voice in his head: You’re not the party type, Matty. You’ll just feel awkward. But then he really looked at Karel—at the calm intelligence in his eyes, the weathered hands resting on the table, the scar on his brow that suggested a story. He was handsome, Matthew realized with a delayed, almost physical jolt. Not in Jake’s glossy, oblivious way, but in a grounded, complete way. Like someone who knew how to listen.
The invitation hung in the lavender-scented air between them.
Karel didn’t push. He just waited, his expression open and patient.
“Okay,” Matthew heard himself say, the word leaving his mouth before the fear could catch it. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Karel’s smile was a slow sunrise. “Good. I finish here at ten. The party starts later. We can go together, if you want. So you do not get lost.”
“I’d… I’d want that,” Matthew said, the knot in his shoulders loosening just a fraction.
“Then it is a plan,” Karel said, standing up. He tapped the textbook. “You can leave the beast here for tonight. It will wait.” He gave a final, reassuring nod and moved back into the flow of the café, leaving Matthew with the taste of bitter coffee and a new, unfamiliar feeling: anticipation.
He gave a final, reassuring nod and moved back into the flow of the café, leaving Matthew with the taste of bitter coffee and a new, unfamiliar feeling: anticipation.
It lasted exactly until he hit the cool evening air on Dlouhá Street. Then the familiar machinery of doubt clicked into place. What was he doing? Agreeing to go to a club with a waiter he’d just met? It felt reckless, a deviation from the careful, bruised script he’d been following since the breakup. He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over Jake’s name. He could cancel his vague plans, go back to the apartment. See him.
Instead, he typed a message to Paula. You free? Need to tell someone I might have just agreed to a date. Or maybe just a pity-guided tour. Having a crisis. Wine?
Her reply was almost instantaneous. The place on Římská. 20 mins. And if you say the words ‘Billy’ or ‘Jake’ I’m pouring your wine on your head.
The wine bar was a basement vault with stone walls and candles stuck in old bottles. Paula was already there, planted at a corner table with a nearly empty glass of red. Her curly red hair was a wild corona in the flickering light. “Okay,” she said, by way of greeting. “Start talking. But first, drink.” She pushed a full glass towards him.
Matthew slid into the seat, the cold stone of the wall seeping through his sweater. He took a gulp. “There’s this guy. Karel. He works at the café where I study.”
“Czech?”
“Yeah. He sat down with me. Made me practice. Asked me to this queer dance party on Saturday. Said he’d take me so I wouldn’t get lost.”
Paula’s eyes, which had been glazed with a long day of teaching conditionals to teenagers, sharpened. She set her glass down with a deliberate click. “Matthew. That’s a date. That is, by any sane person’s definition, a date.”
“Is it?” The word felt foreign, dangerous. “It could just be friendly. He’s a local, he’s being nice to the clueless expat.”
“Did he ask any other clueless expats? Or just the pretty, sad-eyed one with the Czech textbook?”
“I’m not sad-eyed.”
“You’ve had sad eyes for six months, love. It’s your permanent aesthetic.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping. “This is good. This is new. I swear to God, if you start dissecting Jake’s latest gym selfie or reading me Billy’s latest ‘I miss you’ bullshit, I will scream. Actually scream.”
Matthew swirled the wine, watching the legs streak down the glass. The noise of the bar—the clink, the low babble—felt like it was receding. “It’s just… really fast. Billy and I ended four months ago. Four years, and then it’s over, and now I’m supposed to just… go to a dance party with a stranger?”
“Yes,” Paula said, flatly. “That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do. It’s called living. It’s a club, not a marriage proposal.”
“You don’t get it.” The words came out quieter than he intended. He couldn’t look at her. He focused on a crack in the stone table. “I don’t know how to do this. Any of it. Billy… I met Billy during freshman orientation. He was my first everything. First kiss, first relationship, first… you know. I have never, not once, flirted with another guy. I wouldn’t even know how. The idea of starting from zero, of being looked at by someone who doesn’t already know my entire history… it’s terrifying. What if I’m bad at it? What if I’m just permanently broken from it all?”
The confession hung in the air, stark and a little pathetic. Paula didn’t pour wine on his head. Her expression softened from exasperation to something nearer to pity, which was almost worse.
“Oh, Matthew,” she sighed. She reached over and covered his hand with hers. “Everyone’s bad at it at first. It’s like a language. You study, you make embarrassing mistakes, and eventually you get fluent. You can’t stay stuck in beginner’s class forever.”
“But what if I don’t want to be fluent with someone else?” The thought escaped, whispered and treacherous. He immediately wanted to claw it back.
Paula’s gaze was unwavering. “You mean Jake.”
He didn’t confirm it. He didn’t have to. The hope was a small, stubborn pilot light in his chest, still burning despite the cold draft of reality. Jake, who was probably right now in their apartment, laughing with friends, completely unaware that Matthew was in a wine bar dissecting the seismic event of a simple conversation. The fantasy of it—Jake suddenly seeing him, really seeing him—was a comfortable old sweatshirt, worn soft and familiar. It required no risk. It changed nothing.
“Jake is straight,” Paula said, not unkindly. “Or closeted, or confused, or whatever. But he is not available. He is a lovely piece of furniture in a store you can’t afford. Karel asked you a question. He’s talking to you. That’s currency you can actually spend.”
Matthew finished his wine, the tannins dry on his tongue. The anticipation from the café was still there, but it was now tangled with strands of fear and that old, useless hope. It felt like standing at the edge of a diving board, looking down at cold, unknown water while constantly glancing back at the warm, dry deck you’re supposed to leave.
“So you think I should go.”
“I think you should have another glass of wine, go home, and on Saturday, you should put on a shirt that isn’t grey, and you should let a nice man show you a good time,” Paula said, signaling the server for the bottle. “It’s a party. The goal is to have a fraction of fun. Not to solve your entire life.”
Matthew nodded, letting her refill his glass. He’d go. He knew he would. The alternative was another Saturday night listening to Jake’s life from behind his bedroom door. But as he half-listened to Paula’s story about a student who thought ‘thong’ was a type of sandal, a part of his mind was already wandering, crafting a different scene entirely: Jake at the party, somehow, his expression shifting from surprise to something else, something warm and possessive, as Matthew walked in with Karel.
It was a stupid, quiet fantasy. And he held onto it tightly, all the way home.
And he held onto it tightly, all the way home.
The autumn chill had deepened, cutting through the wool of his sweater by the time he shouldered open the heavy door to their apartment building. The climb to the third floor was a familiar, slightly breathless ritual. He could already hear the faint thump of bass from behind their door, the murmur of voices. Jake’s friends were still over.
He let himself in, the wave of warm, beery air hitting him first, then the sound of laughter. The living room was dim, lit only by the YouTube video playing on the TV screen—some compilation of absurd fails. Three people from Jake’s school were sprawled on the floor. Jake himself was a silhouette against the blue glow, perched on the arm of the couch.
He’d clearly just come from the gym. A damp grey tank top clung to his torso, and a towel was draped around his neck. As Matthew shrugged off his jacket, Jake turned, his face breaking into that easy, white smile.
“Matty! You’re back. We’re committing to the bit,” he said, gesturing to the screen where a man somersaulted off a failing skateboard.
“I see that,” Matthew said, forcing a smile. He moved to the kitchen, acutely aware of the space. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, the cool bottle a solid anchor in his hand. He leaned against the counter, his eyes drifting against his will. Jake was laughing at something, his head thrown back, the corded line of his throat working. The defined curve of his bicep bulged as he reached for his own drink. Matthew took a long pull of his beer, letting the cold bitter wash down the sudden, familiar heat in his chest. He pushed it down, compartmentalized it into the same locked box where he kept Billy’s last voicemail.
The friends left soon after, with backslaps and plans for the weekend. The apartment settled into a quiet hum—the refrigerator, the distant traffic. Jake flopped onto the couch, sprawling with the confident ownership of his own body. “Better,” he sighed. “Too many people in a small space. You missed a truly epic debate about the best Star Wars movie.”
“A new hope,” Matthew said automatically, joining him on the other end of the couch. It was their ritual.
“Wrong, but predictably wrong,” Jake said, grinning. He found another video, something about dogs being afraid of cucumbers. They drank their beers, the shared, stupid laughter a comfortable blanket. This was the Jake he knew, the one he could almost pretend was his. The one that made the confusing ache feel worth it.
“So, what’d you get up to?” Jake asked during a lull, his eyes still on the screen.
“Just went to that café, studied. Had a drink with Paula.” Matthew paused. The words about Karel were there, perched on his tongue. Paula’s voice echoed in his head: This is good. This is new. He took a breath. “Actually, I met someone. Kind of.”
Jake’s attention snapped to him fully. “Yeah?” His tone was light, but his body had gone still.
“Yeah. This waiter at the café. Karel. He’s Czech. Helped me with my pronunciation.” Matthew could hear himself downplaying it, making it sound like a language exchange. “He invited me to this queer dance party on Saturday. At Ankali. Said he’d take me.”
The silence that followed was a few beats too long. The video played on, a husky whining at a vacuum cleaner.
“A waiter,” Jake said finally. The word lay flat on the carpet between them.
Matthew blinked. “Yeah. He’s nice.”
Jake took a swig, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He shrugged, a tight, muscular roll of his shoulders. “Just seems a bit… I don’t know. You’re a smart guy, Matt. You’re a teacher. You could probably do better than some guy serving coffee.” He said it casually, almost kindly, as if offering genuine, brotherly advice. “Isn’t the point of moving to a foreign city to, like, upgrade?”
The air in the room thickened. Matthew felt the words like a slight shove, off-balancing him. He stared at Jake, who was now resolutely not looking at him, his jaw set as he watched the screen. This wasn’t the protective, big-brother tone Jake sometimes used. This was something else—dismissive, almost proprietary.
“He’s just showing me around,” Matthew said, his voice thinner than he wanted. “It’s not a wedding.”
“Right. Sure.” Jake forced a laugh. It sounded hollow. “Anyway, that place, Ankali. I’ve heard of it. It’s kind of a heavy scene, isn’t it? Grungy. You sure that’s your vibe?”
What is my vibe? Matthew wanted to ask. Sitting here with you forever? He didn’t. He just took another drink, the beer tasting sour now. “I guess I’ll find out.”
They lapsed back into watching the screen, but the ease was gone. The silence was no longer comfortable; it was loaded, charged with something Matthew couldn’t name. They finished their beers, the ritual now feeling like a pantomime. After twenty minutes of strained commentary, Matthew stood.
“I’m hitting the sack. Long day.”
“Night, Matt,” Jake said, his eyes glued to the TV. He didn’t look up.
In the dark of his bedroom, Matthew lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. The casual cruelty of Jake’s comment replayed in a loop. You could do better. The implication was clear: a waiter was beneath him. But beneath who? Beneath Matthew? Or beneath Jake’s idea of who Matthew should be with?
The confusion was a dull roar. Was it jealousy? It didn’t sound like jealousy. It sounded like judgment. A part of him, the old, wounded part that had believed Billy’s assessments, wanted to agree. Maybe Karel was just a distraction, not a destination.
But another part, the part that had felt that quiet spark in the café, rebelled. Jake didn’t get to have an opinion. Jake, who dated marketing assistants and bartenders without a second thought, didn’t get to look down on a waiter for serving coffee. The unfairness of it curdled in his stomach.
He heard Jake move around in the living room, then the soft click of his bedroom door shutting down the hall.
Matthew turned on his side, pulling the blanket tight. The fantasy from earlier—Jake at the party, seeing him—now felt tainted, sharp at the edges. He thought of Karel’s hands on the table, the scar through his eyebrow, the patience in his voice. A small win is still a win.
He didn’t know what Saturday held. But as he drifted into a unsettled sleep, one thing felt clear: Jake’s opinion, for the first time, felt like a thing he might need to learn to leave behind.