Then drop my voice into male-bass?—
“Naw, sexy. You saw it first.”
I shovel a spoonful into my mouth.
Her (stammering):
“Sorry—I didn’t mean to…”
They lock eyes.
The scene stretches time slow.
Point-five speed.
Him: “Please, have it. I insist.”
Her: “No, I insist.”
I roll my eyes back so hard I see my childhood.
Now he’s two lines away from offering to buy her coffee.
Because that’s what fairy-tale-drunk males do,
offer to buy coffee,
even when you’re holding fucking coffee.
And then fall in love,
thinking their shared taste in books or music means it’s fate and she’s‘not like other girls’when she’s literally all of us.
I look up from my bowl, raise my spoon.
“Go on, sweetheart,” I whisper.
“Say it. Say something profound or charming.
“He’s already halfway in love and reaching for his wallet.”
She giggles.
He smirks.
Her: “Perhaps the book found us.”
Then I sigh. “Wait for it?—”
Him: “I don’t usually do this but…
“would you want to get coffee?”
I point a finger at the screen.
“What did I fuckin’ tell you.”
Another bite.
