Her mouth twists into a scowl. “It does kind of grow on you, though.”
“Like me,” I say. Once again, she graces me with the full force of her gorgeous grin. Like the ice in our cocktails, she begins to melt.
We talk for what must be an hour, at least—jokes and conversation volleying back and forth between us as we try to make each other laugh.
Well, I know that I’m trying to make her laugh, but maybe she’s not as bent out of shape trying to impress me. Trying to impress me would be a waste of everyone’s time anyway, because I’m already enamored with her.
The place slowly begins to empty while the people who remain get louder and rowdier. We point out people and try to guess what they’re talking about, or what they do for work, or what their names are. If she’s right, about ninety percent of the men in the bar are named Brayden. For a brief second, I remember that I don’t even know my mystery bombshell’s name yet—we skipped right past thatbanal exchange of information—but the thought leaves my brain as soon as it enters. I’m too absorbed inher.
I can tell that she’s still being aloof, keeping me at arm’s length. But she lets me stay, and I’ll take what I can get. That is, until she picks up her phone to check the time.
“Shit! I didn’t realize it’s so late. I gotta go,” she says.
I stand to join here before she can dash. “I’ll walk you out.”
Outside, we linger on the sidewalk for a moment. In my mind, I think we both want to stay in our bubble a bit longer—or maybe I’m reading into things. I tend to do that.
After a moment, she looks at me and huffs. “You shouldn’t smoke, you know,” she says, pointing at the object behind my ear. “It’s bad for you.”
I pull out the cigarette and hold it up between us. “Sometimes bad things are good for you,” I say with a wink. “Besides, this isn’t a real cigarette. It’s candy.”
She laughs. “Seriously? I haven’t seen candy cigarettes since I was a kid. Why do you even have those?”
“I like sweet things,” I say, putting the end in my mouth. “Don’t you?”
She closes the gap between us until she’s so close I could lean in—just slightly—and kiss her. But she makes the first move, slowly taking the other end of the candy cigarette in her mouth. My eyes go wide as she gently sucks the sugary stick, then lets go.
“Yeah, I guess I do,” she says in a whisper. Her face takes on a bluish glow when she glances at her phone and announces, “My ride is here.”
Before I can process those last four words, she’s already walking towards a small black sedan, leaving me dumbfounded with a candy cigarette sagging on my bottom lip.
“Wait,” I shout after her. “You never told me your name!”
“I know,” she calls over her shoulder.
3
Cupid
Most people would think Valentine’s Day is my busiest day; it’s quite the opposite. Valentine’s Day is, without fail, my slowest day of the year.
Think about it. What happens in the weeks leading up to Valentine’s Day? Stores stock cards and gifts, theaters show romantic movies, and restaurants start to advertise fancy, expensive dinners for two. I don’t have to do any of the work; society takes care of it for me. One of the reasons I love Valentine’s Day so much.
Another reason: I see pictures of myself everywhere.
Sure, they’re all depictions of me as a chubby winged baby in diapers…but it’s still kind of cool. Not like Zeus or Apollo get to see their ugly mugs all over everything—and I know it makes them jealous. That kind of thing has a way of making a guy feel special. (And it’s not narcissistic, I swear. If you’ve ever tried to have a conversation with Narcissus, you would know the difference. I’m just adept at the practice of self-love.)
So anyone would understand why I was annoyed when the Fates called me to this last-minute “emergency meeting,” andwhy I got tipsy before joining them at their chosen spot.
Usually,I would be buck-naked, lying face down while a robust Swedish woman kneads the muscles in my back until I loosen like modeling clay under her deft fingers.Ah, Brigitta. How I wish you were here.
But alas, I can’t exactly say no to the Fates when I’m called upon to fulfill a duty. Plus, I kind of owe them one for—actually, let’s leave it at that. It’s enough to know I can’t refuse them.
And that’s how I end up sitting at an all-night diner ten minutes until midnight, still buzzed from a couple of Long Island Iced Teas (which are actually delightful, by the way) and meeting the girl of my dreams. Or at least she’ll be the girl of my dreams for tonight…and maybe tomorrow night, and the night after that. And definitely my daydreams. I’ll be thinking about her later, while I—
A coffee cup slams onto the Formica table, jolting me out of my stream of consciousness.
The disinterested waitress pulls out her order pad and smacks her chewing gum. “What can I getcha, hon?” Her pen hovers over the order pad as she taps her tennis shoes against the dirty tiled floor.
