3
“Get over,” Hugo instructed as I turned through the intersection.“Right-hand lane.”
“I think I see a spot.”
“Dash, get—come on.”He threw his hands up, but he mostly sounded amused as he said, “Okay, I guess we’re going to have to circle the block.”
This was why Hugo normally drove.I wasn’t sure why I’d insisted tonight; for some reason, it had seemed incredibly important that I drive.Hugo hadn’t cared, of course—he’d just tossed me the keys and grinned, like somehow it was all a big joke.
“Ha!”I said as I continued down the street.Providence was quiet tonight, and only a handful of other cars had braved the spring rains.But we were going to Taj Palace, and I was literally (okay, not literally) going to murder some naan.“I did see a spot!”
“With a fire hydrant,” Hugo said and ruffled my hair.“Around the block, Jeeves.”
So, I went around the block, and I got into the right-hand lane, and I saw the spot Hugo had noticed.It was still empty, of course.That was the way things went for Hugo—everything always worked out.
“I’m going to eat eight samosas,” I said.Rain sprinkled the windshield, and after a quick glance at Taj Palace (at the far end of the block now), I pulled my hood up as I reached for the door.“No, ten.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Hugo said.Then he pointed.“We’re going to Hutchinson’s.”
The urban steakhouse was right in front of us.Not at the end of the block.
“But—samosas.And naan.And butter chicken.”
“And carbs, and carbs, and rice—more carbs.”Hugo laughed at whatever he saw on my face.He took my hood gently, pulled me in for a kiss, and then gave my head a little shake.“Come on.”
Inside, Hutchinson’s was all shadow and texture: leather and the raw edge of wood and polished steel.The light came from Edison bulbs in pendant fixtures, and their dim yellow glow did little to push back the gloom.Because my stomach is a treacherous beast, it raised its head and sniffed the air, scenting the aroma of seared meat.So much for ten samosas, I thought as we settled into our seats.More texture: the thick tablecloth.Our waiter was a middle-aged man in a pair of Keds, and when he asked about drinks, Hugo said, “We’ll both have water.”
I gave Hugo a look as the waiter retreated.
“Do you want to have a headache tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
Hugo rolled his eyes and picked up the menu.He only glanced at it for a moment before he said, “I think we should stay away from the sides.”His eyes came to me.“Is a wedge salad too much?All that dressing.”
“I want a potato.”
“Dashiell.”
“I want lots of potatoes.With lots of cheese.And fried—everything fried.”
“Okay,” Hugo said.“Here we go.”
“We’ve been eating healthy all week.We’re young.We’re healthy.We can enjoy a cheat meal.”
Hugo set the menu down and spread his hands.
When the waiter came back, Hugo ordered a wedge salad to start (apparently, the dressing wasn’t too much), and a filet with a side of steamed vegetables.The waiter looked at me.
Porterhouse, I thought.Medium-rare.And give me all the potatoes.
But Hugo was right.Even if he hadn’t said anything, even if he hadn’t spoken out loud, I knew what he was thinking: we were trying to stay healthy.We were trying to make responsible choices.And, if I didn’t eat every potato in the house, there was the possibility of dessert.
“The filet,” I said.“And the steamed vegetables.”
“He’ll have a wedge salad too,” Hugo said.“Dressing on the side.”When the waiter departed, he said, “So.”The light from the Edison bulb gleamed against the dark waves of his hair.He put his hand on top of mine.“Tell me about your day.”
So, I did.And Hugo told me about his day.And his fingers laced with mine, tightened, stroked, squeezed.He’d always been more comfortable with public displays of affection.More comfortable with touch in general, if I were being honest.That was one of the reasons we worked—because the first time he’d held my hand, and my whole body had locked up, he’d laughed and wiggled my fingers for me until I relaxed.Always more affectionate, always more demonstrative.Always more in control.
