For a minute, neither of us says a word. We just stand there, letting our bodies hum in the dark quiet of each other’s presence. It feels like every molecule in my body is reaching toward him. Begging to touch him.
“Number two,” Will says. His voice unfurls along my neck, somehow massaging the muscles there I’d tensed. “I hate leftovers.”
This pulls me out of my trance. “I’m sorry.What?”
“I hate leftovers,” he repeats. “I don’t like taking food home from restaurants, and if I’m cooking, I always try to make exactly the right amount of food for the number of people consuming it. Which is usually one.”
“You—” I pause, processing. “Whydo you hate leftovers?”
“They aren’t appealing to me,” he explains. “I hate thinkingabout food being cooked, cooled down, and then reheated.” Will shivers. “It just doesn’t seemhygienic,and on top of that, I was forced to eat a lot of leftovers as a kid because my mom cooked everything in bulk—don’t even get me started on freezer meals—and I justhatethem. I would rather eat a banana and a piece of toasted bread with peanut butter for dinner than leftovers I took home from a gourmet restaurant the night before. Also, cooking is sacred to me—a very calming ritual—and reheating leftovers in the microwave has the exact opposite effect.”
I stare. “You realize some restaurants serve food that has been previously frozen?”
“Yes,” Will says, blanching. “I can almost always tell.”
“What about, like,preservedthings?” I ask. “Like kimchi?”
“That’s fine,” Will says. “Though I’m pretty rigid about expiration dates.”
“Wow.” I rub a hand over my forehead. “Hating leftovers reallyisone of the… maybe not the worst, but certainly one of the most idiosyncratic things about you.”
He nods. “I’ve been told.”
“Isurviveoff the Trader Joe’s frozen section.”
He smirks. “Well, there you have it. Our first sign of incompatibility.”
It’s a weak holdout, but better than nothing.
After a minute of processing I say, “I’m ready for number three.”
Will’s face grows solemn. “I snore. Terribly.”
I burst into laughter, which, had there not been a cicada or two nearby, might have been overheard by the party guests.
“I have allergies—dog hair being one of them, but also pollen and ragweed—and my snoring is worst in the spring and fall, but frankly, it’s tragic all year round. Plus, I’ve got a deviated septum.” Will presses a finger to one side of his nose, and I notice the tiniest curve there. “I’ve had multiple women leave, or askmeto leave, aone-night stand at three a.m. because they could not sleep over the sound of my snoring.”
My laughter simmers but doesn’t subside. “You woke up after sex with a stranger and were told to leave because of yoursnoring?”
Will nods. “More than once.”
“When was the last time you had a girlfriend?”
“I dated someone when I was at NYU for about a year. She said she didn’t end it because of the snoring, but she complained about it often enough that I’m not totally sure I believe her.”
“What was the provided reason she dumped you?”
Dimples. “I didn’tdrink enough.”
“What?”
“She was a bit of a partier. I couldn’t keep up.”
“You were cramping her style.”
“Evidently.”
“I watched you drink tonight at a very normal rate.”
