I say, afraid of a scene, tears starting to pool in my eyes. I push the cocktail aside, though it’s still mostly full, and start to grab for my purse, but his left little chubby hand stops mine.
“Blondie? You’re going already?”
Okay. Mixed signals. Mixed signals. What do I do?
“I— I—“
“You-you what?” he says. “Aren’t you going to say hello to that handsome piece of ass over there?”
I don’t have to look where he is nodding to know who he is talking about. I bet everyone noticed how infatuated at first sight I was, and they are all laughing behind my back for even daring to look at, let alone lust over, someone that striking. Well, better behind my back than to my face I guess, but I’m not even sure I’ll be able to avoid either—bad high school memories. I look around to gauge the level of shaming I’m going to be subjected to, but no one is looking at me except for Old Peter.
“I— I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, trying without success to imagine a way out of this conversation.
“Cal! Bring Blondie here that Love Potion I mixed for her, and hurry the fuck up!” Old Peter calls. I again look around, afraid once more he’s called attention to me, but except for a tall waiter rushing with a tray no one is paying attention to us.
This is weird. Are they all looking away out of embarrassment for me? Old Peter Dinklage sure isn’t trying to be inconspicuous. My eyes keep darting all over the place, but the atmosphere hasn’t changed, and people keep chatting and flirting around me, ignoring me.
Cal puts a cocktail in front of me. I think about protesting—I didn’t even finish my first drink. Honestly, I just want to get up and leave, but the look on Old Peter’s face tells me I won’t get away with that. Do I want to piss him off? He seems pretty unstable.
“It’s on the house, Blondie,” he insists, interrupting my thoughts.
The cocktail is beautiful. It’s pink, and smells heavenly—like berries and lemon and rum, I think—and is served in a tall, elaborately crafted glass with a heart at its center. A sort of fog emanates from the drink—it looks just how I would imagine a love potion should look like. I pull the stirrer from the slushy drink. It’s heavier than it should be—maybe it’s made from solid gold—and shaped like a small arrow.
“Aren’t you going to drink it?” Old Peter insists, making it hard for me to refuse. Okay, you get it now: I’m a pushover.
I babble, torn between the need to find a polite way to refuse and leave, and the strong inclination to do as I’m told and get it over with, when somehow the stirrer slips from my fingers and clatters onto the ground. Panicked, I shoot Old Peter an apologetic look. He’s still staring at me, irritated but with a curious look on his face. “I’m sorry,” I say, starting to bend over to pick the stirrer up—what if it’s real gold, just like those fancy ice cream parlors that they serve you your dessert in a sterling silver bowl? I better not lose it.
“Leave it,” says Old Peter Dinklage, his tone suddenly playful, so much lighter than I imagined it would be after I dropped the pricey stirrer. “I’ve got another one right here.”
I straighten up, thinking there is probably no way I can escape drinking that cocktail now, but my thoughts are interrupted as Old Peter Dinklage thrusts forward and pierces my heart with a bigger golden arrow.
Chapter Two
I grab at the edge of the table as a sudden pain shoots through my ribcage. Stumbling forward and taking the cocktail and napkins down with me, I fall onto my hands and knees on the wet floor, barely noticing the glass shards that gore me as the rest of the cocktail drips off the table and onto my neck. It hurts so much!
Love hurts, Blondie.
Did— Did someone just talk to me? I glance in front of me and see Old Peter Dinklage’s small feet right beside me.
Sigh.
My hand flies up to my chest instinctively,
“Blondie? You’re going already?”
Okay. Mixed signals. Mixed signals. What do I do?
“I— I—“
“You-you what?” he says. “Aren’t you going to say hello to that handsome piece of ass over there?”
I don’t have to look where he is nodding to know who he is talking about. I bet everyone noticed how infatuated at first sight I was, and they are all laughing behind my back for even daring to look at, let alone lust over, someone that striking. Well, better behind my back than to my face I guess, but I’m not even sure I’ll be able to avoid either—bad high school memories. I look around to gauge the level of shaming I’m going to be subjected to, but no one is looking at me except for Old Peter.
“I— I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, trying without success to imagine a way out of this conversation.
“Cal! Bring Blondie here that Love Potion I mixed for her, and hurry the fuck up!” Old Peter calls. I again look around, afraid once more he’s called attention to me, but except for a tall waiter rushing with a tray no one is paying attention to us.
This is weird. Are they all looking away out of embarrassment for me? Old Peter Dinklage sure isn’t trying to be inconspicuous. My eyes keep darting all over the place, but the atmosphere hasn’t changed, and people keep chatting and flirting around me, ignoring me.
Cal puts a cocktail in front of me. I think about protesting—I didn’t even finish my first drink. Honestly, I just want to get up and leave, but the look on Old Peter’s face tells me I won’t get away with that. Do I want to piss him off? He seems pretty unstable.
“It’s on the house, Blondie,” he insists, interrupting my thoughts.
The cocktail is beautiful. It’s pink, and smells heavenly—like berries and lemon and rum, I think—and is served in a tall, elaborately crafted glass with a heart at its center. A sort of fog emanates from the drink—it looks just how I would imagine a love potion should look like. I pull the stirrer from the slushy drink. It’s heavier than it should be—maybe it’s made from solid gold—and shaped like a small arrow.
“Aren’t you going to drink it?” Old Peter insists, making it hard for me to refuse. Okay, you get it now: I’m a pushover.
I babble, torn between the need to find a polite way to refuse and leave, and the strong inclination to do as I’m told and get it over with, when somehow the stirrer slips from my fingers and clatters onto the ground. Panicked, I shoot Old Peter an apologetic look. He’s still staring at me, irritated but with a curious look on his face. “I’m sorry,” I say, starting to bend over to pick the stirrer up—what if it’s real gold, just like those fancy ice cream parlors that they serve you your dessert in a sterling silver bowl? I better not lose it.
“Leave it,” says Old Peter Dinklage, his tone suddenly playful, so much lighter than I imagined it would be after I dropped the pricey stirrer. “I’ve got another one right here.”
I straighten up, thinking there is probably no way I can escape drinking that cocktail now, but my thoughts are interrupted as Old Peter Dinklage thrusts forward and pierces my heart with a bigger golden arrow.
Chapter Two
I grab at the edge of the table as a sudden pain shoots through my ribcage. Stumbling forward and taking the cocktail and napkins down with me, I fall onto my hands and knees on the wet floor, barely noticing the glass shards that gore me as the rest of the cocktail drips off the table and onto my neck. It hurts so much!
Love hurts, Blondie.
Did— Did someone just talk to me? I glance in front of me and see Old Peter Dinklage’s small feet right beside me.
Sigh.
My hand flies up to my chest instinctively,
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