“What does that have to do with dessert?” I ask her.
“Nothing, but I could tell you wanted to ask me what was going on. I figured after buying me this delicious meal, you had a right to know.”
“I don’t like plastic wrap,” I confess. Her gaze narrows like she’s trying to figure out if I’m making fun of her. So, I explain, “I can never find the seam and once I do, if I don’t pull it evenly, it rips and then I only get the tiniest sliver and then the whole roll is destroyed.”
“Huh.” I can tell she doesn’t share my annoyance with plastic wrap, but she doesn’t say anything disparaging. Instead, she jokes, “You know we’ll never be able to get married now.”
“How’s that?”
She shrugs her shoulders before saying, “I can’t stand foil and you can’t stand plastic wrap. What would we do with our leftovers?”
Pointing to the Styrofoam container on the table, I tell her, “We could order those by the gross.”
She makes a face. “Those are bad for the environment.”
“We can get those little cardboard boxes that Chinese food comes in,” I decide.
Shaking her head, she tells me, “We’d never know what was inside of them. I like to see what I have when I open the refrigerator.”
“Tupperware,” I suggest.
Finley screws up her mouth like she’s really thinking about this, but then she decrees, “You’re not supposed to microwave plastic. Chemicals leach out into the food.”
“We could transfer the food to a glass plate before microwaving it …”
With a giant sigh, Finley replies, “That would be a lot of dirty dishes.”
“It’s like you don’t even want to marry me,” I practically shout, which causes the table next to us to turn and stare. I offer a brief wave, and tell them, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to let her say no.”
They smile awkwardly before turning back to their own conversation. Meanwhile, Finley jokes, “You’d better not propose for real in the diner. I want something more memorable.”
Finley Harper is nothing short of delightful. She’s witty, clever, and she knows how to enjoy a good meal.
Picking up her to-go container, I scoot out of the booth and stand up. Then I reach out to help her. “Even though I’m sorely tempted,” I tell her, “I’m probably going to wait until after we’ve gone on more than one fake date to propose to you.”
Taking my hand, she slides across the booth seat and stands up so that we’re practically eye-to-eye. Actually, we’re more chin to eye. Finley’s probably around five ten. She looks up slightly and holds my gaze before saying, “Chicken.”
I want to wrap my arms around her and kiss her with every ounce of emotion she’s making me feel. But that would probably scare her away. Instead of acting on impulse, I tell her, “I usually wait until the twentieth fake date to propose.”
“I’m sorry,” she says with pity.
“For what?”
“That all those women said no to you. That had to be rough.”
Looking down, I realize I’m still holding Finley’s hand. Instead of letting it go, I gently pull her toward the door. Once we’re out on the street, I lean down and tell her, “I’ve never made it to the twentieth fake date. I suppose we’ll just have to see if we last that long.”
Finley’s face flushes red but she maintains eye contact. “I suppose we will.” Then she adds, “But if I say yes, we’re either going to have to get divorced before our ten-year anniversary or we’ll have to skip the tenth year and go straight to the eleventh.”
This woman completely baffles me, and I’m thoroughly enjoying it. “Are you going to tell me why?”
Finley is standing so close to me I could easily lean down and kiss her. But before I can decide if that would be prudent, she takes a big step backward. Then she turns around and runs across the street before calling out, “The tenth year is the aluminum year!” Pointing to the building behind her, she adds, “I live here. Thanks for supper!” Then she turns and walks through the door to the left of the yarn shop.
I walk home seven blocks in the rain, barely registering the discomfort. I’ve had a great night, and I owe that to one slightly left of center, eccentric photographer. From the moment I met Finley, I knew she was something special, and every interaction has cemented that belief.
By the time I turn up my street, I’m soaking wet. When I get to my house, I notice Kevin is getting out of his car. “Hey, neighbor,” I call out to him. I still can’t bring myself to call him Pickles.
“Tommy,” he returns my greeting. “What are you doing walking on a night like tonight?”
