I fluff my hair and scrutinize my appearance in the mirror. “Why did you invite me?” I groan with some embarrassment. I hold up the phone and look him in the eye.
“Because I’d seen you at one of those awful orientation things—the ones that always make new students feel even lonelier and sadder than they already are—and you looked like you were gonna off yourself.” He shrugs. “For whatever reason, you sort of broke my heart. I just wanted to make you happy.”
“And you did.” I smile. “Not sure I ever told you this, but that next week? I made some dumb excuse to find you at work. You were at Ace Hardware, right? I went in and said I needed help finding picture hangers. You strutted around in your red vest, grabbed Command Strips, and then said that your shift was ending.”
“Okay, I never strutted in anything! That’s a very rude and gross accusation.”
“We ended up chatting…” I lead him on.
“I asked how your night ended up, and you looked like you might cry.” He reminisces. “Then I asked about how things were with your odd roommate and her manatee obsession, I took you to Rissimini’s for a terrible dinner.”
“For thebestdinner.”
Our local Italian place wasn’t exactly authentic or delicious, but they did provide good comfort food. I somehow still crave their Alfredo.
“And you asked about Katrina while I soaked garlic bread into a sauce.”
“And I knew you were cooked.”
“Iwascooked.” He grins. “So, go get cooked yourself now!”
“You’re a fucking pest,” I say.
After a final nervous check in the mirror, I tell Patrick that I’m signing off.
“Send me a pic!”
After I protest and Patrick fake fumes and we go back and forth, I cave, and he gets a picture of me in my outfit.
“My nearly-monochromatic girl is again killing it.”
“It’s not too boring? Do I look like a snowflake?”
“No, it’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”
“Shut up. And thank you.”
Moments later, I get a text.
Patrick:Don’t forget what I said. He’s your Katrina.
Me:Stop texting me lies. He’s not my fucking Katrina. That’s not a thing.
Patrick:Oh, it’s a thing. You’re also his snow kisses.
When Dave meets me, he smiles and does an exaggerated back stagger and thumps his chest. “Well, hello, you!”
Although I roll my eyes and try to suppress a smile, I blush.
“While you look so beautiful, is this the best outfit to wear on a food venture?” he asks. “I mean, I wouldn’t want you to ruin your clothing. Because I definitely want to see you in this again.”
“Don’t you worry,” I assure him. “This is not my first rodeo when it comes to eating in all the outfits. I have not stained a thing in years. I’ve got eating moves you can’t imagine.”
He cocks his head. “I can totally believe that you’ve got some moves.”
New Friend Dave takes me on an hours-long food tour that blows me away and nearly drains my phone because I’ve videoed so much. After visiting countless vendors and stands, I’m sold on this boy’s recommendations. Poor Megan Madonna is probably having a stroke, given all the videos and additional text commentary I’ve sent, but I know she’ll compile great posts. And while I’ve gathered all this footage, it’s just a small fraction of my time with Dave, and I’ve so been in this night with him.
When we get back to the hotel, he grabs my hand in the elevator. “I am so full that I cannot think of how I’ll ever want to eat again, but I don’t want this day to end. Not yet.”
