She’s made me laugh again, which is very much undercutting what I had hoped would be a sexy and somber declaration.
“It might be psycho, but it doesn’t make it less true. You’re mine. We’ve shared intimacy, and I’ve become very attached to, even bonded with you. I don’t want to lose you. Ever.”
“We haven’t even been on a date,” she points out, now thoroughly disgruntled.
“Then we will rectify that,” I say. “Tonight. Wear a dress. I will pick you up at 7:00 p.m.”
She bristles at being told what to do, but I think she very much wants to be taken out for dinner. A little romance and normalcy will not go astray now.
* * *
Lydia
I was supposed to run away and escape. Instead, I go back to work, and after work I go back to the same apartment I fled earlier to get dressed for our date.
I have a little black dress that fits nicely, so I decide to wear it, even though he told me to do it, and I wish I hadn’t.
Simon knocks on my door at 7.00 p.m. on the dot.
I answer the door. We both pretend we’re normal. I don’t have to pretend as much as he does, to be fair.
He looks handsome in a suit. Just like I knew he would. Bastard.
It’s not fair that good-looking men get to have this much sway over the sanity and good judgment of women like myself. I can’t help what my body does when I see him standing there, tall, dark, handsome, carrying god knows what in his suit pocket in terms of experimental chemical treatments, potentially on the verge of hulking out into a fucking wolf.
“You look very nice,” he says slightly stiffly as we go out to the car.
I put my hair up and also put my best pair of earrings on. I want to look nice. Sometimes these things are done to attract men, but I already know I attract him while wearing a cardigan and a pencil skirt. Tonight’s attire is for me, closer to a battledress than a seductress.
That sentence doesn’t make coherent sense even in my head, but I take joy in it and if anybody complains about it I’ll ask what the fuck they are doing in my head.
“Thank you,” I say, taking a seat in the passenger side of his car.
He drives us to a restaurant. Italian. Nice. Filled with normal people having a nice evening, except for one couple who are sniping at each other about a family vacation while their kids hit each other with an iPad, which adds a little local color.
Simon gets us a table upstairs on the balcony overlooking the river. The shrieks of the younger diners blend with the shrieks of the city, and there’s something like peace out here.
“Thank you,” I say. “For taking me out. This is nice of you.”
“I got the feeling you needed something nice,” he says. “I know your very short tenure at the company has been, well… some would describe it as traumatic.”
“They might,” I agree.
There’s chemistry between us. I can feel it sparking. We are alone on the balcony, and his hand slides under the table, his fingers trailing up my thigh. I feel the muscles low in my stomach start to tighten, my breath hitching. Of course he is bold in public. He is bold everywhere.
“Hi! My name’s Nathaniel! I’ll be your server for this evening, can I get you guys anything to drink?” An aggressively cheerful man interrupts what was starting to become interesting.
He’s just doing his job, of course, and a good job of it too. In fact, for the entire time I’ve known him, he’s refrained from turning from a human man into a molten puddle, or an animal. So he has that going for him.
Simon slides his hand away and smoothly orders wine for the table, as well as appetizers and mains. He orders for us both, without asking me what I want, or if I have any dietary issues.
“I’ll have my prawn cocktail without any prawns,” I say. “On account of my throat closes up when I eat seafood.”
That’s not actually true, and kind of a dick move to say, but it’s also a dick move to order like it’s 1950 and my desires don’t matter.
“Scratch the prawn cocktail,” Simon says. “Is the rest of it okay?”
“Yes,” I say. “The rest sounds lovely. Thank you.”