1: extracting flavor by steeping ingredients in liquid over time.
2: when someone’s essence seeps into every part of your life until you can’t separate them from yourself.
The moment we’re half a block clear of Eliana’s building, Zeke starts in. “Ah.”
“Shut up,” I say immediately. I already know where he’s going and I want no part of it.
“Ahh.”
“Zeke.”
“Ahhhhhh.”
“I swear to God, for the love of all that is holy in this world, I will put a fist through your face if you keep making that infuriating fucking?—”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh, it all makes so much sense now!”
I keep my eyes forward, maintain my jogging pace and say nothing. The sidewalk stretches ahead. It is regretfully devoid of any Zeke-sized storm drains that might allow me to shove my best friend into the sewage-filled bowels of the city where he belongs.
Pity.
“The infamous Eliana Hunter,” Zeke continues. “It’s a privilege to finally meet the woman whose name alone makes that vein in your forehead do the twitchy thing.”
“My forehead doesn’t twitch.”
“It’s twitching right now, buddy.”
I increase our pace. I’m hoping cardiovascular distress might shut him up. It doesn’t.
“She’s cute,” he says. “Spicy. Very your type.”
“I don’t have a type.”
“Sure you don’t. That’s why every woman you’ve dated in the last five years has been some variation of ‘competent brunette with a sharp tongue and emotional unavailability issues.’”
“That’s not?—”
“Again with the twitching. Jeez, bud. You’re gonna give yourself a coronary like that.”
I sigh and bite my tongue. I know from long and exhaustive personal experience that arguing will only encourage him.
“Her friend seems nice,” Zeke says, switching tactics. “Yasmin. Pretty name.”
“Don’t.”
“Am I not allowed to make conversation about a lovely woman I just met?”
“Don’t use Yasmin as a way to get information about Eliana.”
“Who says I need information? You just confirmed everything by nearly having an aneurysm when you saw her in those sweatpants.” He grins at me sideways. “Tell me, is that what she wore on your little oyster date?”
“On my— Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Who snitched?”
Zeke is looking more and more like the cat that caught several canaries. I couldn’t slap that grin off his face if I tried, though I am very tempted to give it my fullest effort anyway.
“Dante texted me,” he explains with a wink. “Said you showed up with some foxy date and actually smiled for once. He was concerned you’d had a stroke. Must’ve seen the twitching forehead vein.”
Fucking Dante. Fucking Zeke. Fucking everyone in my life who acts like me experiencing a single moment of non-misery is a medical emergency.
