sun to make a full rotation on its dang axis—I’ve let this girl in the tacky pink coat turn into someone I don’t want to say goodbye to. I want a next time. I find myself hoping for more than one.
Which is why I force myself to get a grip.
But unless she’s a really good actress or just immune to suggestive comments, she doesn’t flinch. Even the skin on her pretty face doesn’t change color. Thank goodness.
“You are a pig,” she says. “No girl alive could win a contest with a pig.” She picks up her coffee and drains it, then snatches her spoon and cuts into her cinnamon apples, only half of which she’s eaten. “And let me tell you something else—”
“Please do. I’m dying to hear it,” I deadpan.
She spears me with a look. “Sitting across from you while you shovel food in your mouth is about as attractive as watching said pig roll around in manure after he’s finished his dinner. It’s disgusting. Vile. Too much for another human to have to endure.”
“It can’t be worse than watching you talk with your mouth full…” I can see bits of apple rolling around in there.
“A million times worse.”
“…Or having you puke all over me. Five times.” Thankfully, no apples involved last night.
That does it. The blush that eluded me a minute ago has returned full-force, along with a sudden inability to look my direction. She swallows and becomes preoccupied with making sure her dirty utensils are perfectly aligned with her equally dirty plate. Then she reaches for the salt and pepper shaker, beginning what looks like an imaginary game of chess. Just when I start to feel bad for my stupid joke, she looks up.
“I’m really sorry about that. As long as I live, I’m not sure I’ll be able to get over the humiliation.” The salt goes right, the pepper goes left. Checkmate.
“Nothing to be embarrassed about.” I shrug. “Despite all the complaining I did earlier in your apartment, it wasn’t all bad. Considering what could have happened to you, I was happy to be there. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
It must have been the right thing to say—not that I’m overly concerned with saying the right thing. Sometimes the right thing hurts, sometimes it’s harsh, sometimes it isn’t what another person wants to hear. In this case, it’s the truth. She smiles and looks me in the eye for the first time in minutes. I reach across the table for a triangle peg board game and start playing, red jumping over white in an attempt to be the last one standing.
She still has that smile on her lips when she asks, “Why Princess?” and turns to grab a game off the table behind her. After a quick inspection that I’m pretty sure involved checking for visible amoebas—I remember the stash of handy wipes in her apartment—we both start jumping our own separate pieces and a contest ensues. I’m determined to win.
“You’re kidding, right? Isn’t it obvious?” I lay a white peg on the table and steal a glance at her, aware of how hot irresistible she looks competing with me.
She flips a yellow over red and discards the peg beside her. “Not to me. I’ve never been into super-girly things before, and no one’s ever called me that.”
I’m down to six pegs. I sit up a little straighter and study the board, knowing there has to be a way to make this work. “First of all, as the guy who saw you in a pink coat with fur trim and then slept in your equally tacky ruffled pink robe that your dying aunt did not give you , I’m having a little trouble believing the ‘I’m not girly’ part. Second of all, the name fits. Princess? As in, Kate?” When I glance up to see her frown at me, it’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. This girl looks cultured. She doesn’t strike me as the airhead type you often see on Jimmy Fallon who can’t even name our current President. “Kate,” I say, “as in the future queen of England? Geez, girl. What are they not teaching you at school? You are in
Which is why I force myself to get a grip.
But unless she’s a really good actress or just immune to suggestive comments, she doesn’t flinch. Even the skin on her pretty face doesn’t change color. Thank goodness.
“You are a pig,” she says. “No girl alive could win a contest with a pig.” She picks up her coffee and drains it, then snatches her spoon and cuts into her cinnamon apples, only half of which she’s eaten. “And let me tell you something else—”
“Please do. I’m dying to hear it,” I deadpan.
She spears me with a look. “Sitting across from you while you shovel food in your mouth is about as attractive as watching said pig roll around in manure after he’s finished his dinner. It’s disgusting. Vile. Too much for another human to have to endure.”
“It can’t be worse than watching you talk with your mouth full…” I can see bits of apple rolling around in there.
“A million times worse.”
“…Or having you puke all over me. Five times.” Thankfully, no apples involved last night.
That does it. The blush that eluded me a minute ago has returned full-force, along with a sudden inability to look my direction. She swallows and becomes preoccupied with making sure her dirty utensils are perfectly aligned with her equally dirty plate. Then she reaches for the salt and pepper shaker, beginning what looks like an imaginary game of chess. Just when I start to feel bad for my stupid joke, she looks up.
“I’m really sorry about that. As long as I live, I’m not sure I’ll be able to get over the humiliation.” The salt goes right, the pepper goes left. Checkmate.
“Nothing to be embarrassed about.” I shrug. “Despite all the complaining I did earlier in your apartment, it wasn’t all bad. Considering what could have happened to you, I was happy to be there. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
It must have been the right thing to say—not that I’m overly concerned with saying the right thing. Sometimes the right thing hurts, sometimes it’s harsh, sometimes it isn’t what another person wants to hear. In this case, it’s the truth. She smiles and looks me in the eye for the first time in minutes. I reach across the table for a triangle peg board game and start playing, red jumping over white in an attempt to be the last one standing.
She still has that smile on her lips when she asks, “Why Princess?” and turns to grab a game off the table behind her. After a quick inspection that I’m pretty sure involved checking for visible amoebas—I remember the stash of handy wipes in her apartment—we both start jumping our own separate pieces and a contest ensues. I’m determined to win.
“You’re kidding, right? Isn’t it obvious?” I lay a white peg on the table and steal a glance at her, aware of how hot irresistible she looks competing with me.
She flips a yellow over red and discards the peg beside her. “Not to me. I’ve never been into super-girly things before, and no one’s ever called me that.”
I’m down to six pegs. I sit up a little straighter and study the board, knowing there has to be a way to make this work. “First of all, as the guy who saw you in a pink coat with fur trim and then slept in your equally tacky ruffled pink robe that your dying aunt did not give you , I’m having a little trouble believing the ‘I’m not girly’ part. Second of all, the name fits. Princess? As in, Kate?” When I glance up to see her frown at me, it’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. This girl looks cultured. She doesn’t strike me as the airhead type you often see on Jimmy Fallon who can’t even name our current President. “Kate,” I say, “as in the future queen of England? Geez, girl. What are they not teaching you at school? You are in
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