Another lemonade appeared in front of me, followed shortly by our plates. We thanked the bartender and I switched my straw into my new glass. “Hmm,” Jamison mused, looking from his plate to mine and inching his fork in my direction.
I shook my fork defensively at him. “Nope. You promised, we each get our own first bite.” When his fork paused but didn’t draw back, I jabbed mine playfully at the back of his hand, pulling the blow at the last second so as to not actually stab him. “Mine.”
“Hmph.” Pouting, he moved back to his own food and cut off a piece of his steak. “What fun is it when I have to eat what I chose for myself, I ask you?”
I took a deep whiff of my food, enjoying the scent of cream with the tang of wine. “I promise you can have a taste of mine. After I do.” And with that, I forked up my first bite, ignoringJamison’s puppydog eyes. The chicken was piping hot, and I barely managed to not do the panting-dog thing you do when you burn your mouth. It was good, though - creamy and slightly spicy with just a hint of fruitiness from the wine. “Mmm,” I murmured.
Jamison swallowed his own first mouthful and scowled theatrically at me. “Showoff.”
I shrugged off his protest. “It’s good. How’s yours?”
“Good, actually. Not overcooked, which puts it ahead of a lot of steaks I get at restaurants.”
“Oh, you’re one ofthose,” I observed dryly. “Do you prefer your cow to still be mooing?”
“Ew, no.” He shook his head and, before I could stop him, forked up a bite of my chicken. He slipped it into his mouth and made an exaggerated face of orgasmic pleasure as he chewed. “Ok, I’m gettingthatnext time. Hnghh.”
Deciding that if I couldn’t beat him, I’d join him, I reached over and cut off a bite of his steak for myself to try.
“Anyway,” he said after he swallowed, making no objection to my theft of his food, “no, I’m not a still-bleeding steak person. But I like it with some pink still in it, and you’d be surprised by how many times I order medium and get all-the-way gray.”
“All-the-way gray sounds like a good name for a paint color,” I mused. “Or an emo band name.”
“ ‘Yes dear’,” he intoned in a girlish voice, “‘I want to paint the nursery the color of overdone steak. This is just perfect!’”
“Someone, somewhere, wishes that was an option,” I said with a grin. “Believe me when I tell you that some people’s taste in decor is…highly questionable.”
His eyes lit up. “Ooh, I detect a story. Have people asked you to make weird shit?” He ate another bite of steak. “Or paint your stuff weird colors? Wait, do you paint your stuff?”
“I can,” I allowed. “But usually it’s just staining rather than actual paint. Most people want their wood to look like wood.” I took a sip of lemonade and twirled up some of the pasta that had come with my chicken. “Don’t look,” I ordered him, just before attempting to slurp up the pasta without getting it all over my face. My success was…limited.
He looked. And then he raised his napkin and wiped butter off my chin.
“I’m not sure whether to say you’re rude,” I said, raising my own napkin to wipe the rest of it off, “or thank you for the assistance.”
“Always be thankful when a guy wipes white stuff off your face after the fact,” he said with a grin. “It’s just the polite thing to do.”
I couldn’t suppress my eye roll. “I made that too easy for you.”
“Ok, big guy,” he teased. “Now, tell me more about bad design decisions you’ve had to shut down. Or even better, the ones you haven’t been able to shut down!”
***
Two hours later, a tipsy Jamison and I said goodbye at the door of the Cheesecake Factory. We parted with about as much awkwardness as I would have expected, with me unsure whether a hug was acceptable and him grabbing me in a bear hug before I could spend too much time overthinking things.
“You take care of yourself, my friend” he said into my chest. “I’ll let you know when I get my latest results.”
I patted his shoulder. “Same. But we’ll be fine, yeah?”
He sighed. “Yeah. Fine.” He pointed over his shoulder. “Ok I should head out. Wait -” He squeezed me again. “One more for the road,” he said with a grin, and then released my waist. “Talk to you soon, ok?”
I couldn’t resist the tug of longing that rose in me at his easy affection. I wished I could be like that, just reaching out and hugging someone because I wanted to and it felt good. But no, I was always too hung up on whether it was the right time, what they’d think of me, whether my hugs were good enough…Enough, Hen.I coughed a little and offered Jamison my best smile. “Soon, yep.”
Jamison flipped me a wave and turned down the street. I stood there for a few seconds, watching his retreating form and wondering what it would be like to see him and get those hugs regularly. He was a good hugger. Solid squeezes, no fluttering or wandering hands. Didn’t smell like potpourri or just pot. A++ would hug again.
I checked my watch, noting that it was nearing five p.m. How had that happened? At least I’d gotten some work done this morning, so I wasn’t behind, but wow, time flew when you were socializing.
That’s what we’d been doing, right? Socializing? This definitely hadn’t just been aCheck in about test resultsmeetup, or even aKeep in touch with the guy so he’ll keep you updatedmeetup. This had been aBored on a Saturday, let’s do something funmeetup. Like friends did.
