Page 10 of A Merry Christmas for Art… and His Tentacles

“Um, I’d like two cups of hot cocoa, please,” I stammer.

The young man on the other side of the counter pushes a button on his cash register. “Would you like whipped cream?”

I turn to Dean Miller. “Would you like whipped cream?”

“Yes, please.”

“Whipped cream on one, but not the other,” I tell the cashier.

He pushes a few more buttons, and I hand my card to him. The whole interaction is over quickly. The guy slides two hot paper cups with black lids across the counter, and we’re on our way.

“Very smooth. You didn’t even lecture me on how bad whipped cream is for my health,” Dean Miller says.

“You said I shouldn’t. The hot cocoa is fun, so it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to discuss the heightened risk of heart disease, diabetes, and weight gain in people who consume high-fat dairy products.”

He holds up his hot cocoa and knocks it against mine. “Exactly. Cheers.”

“I thought cheers was reserved for alcoholic beverages?”

“It probably is. But saying cheers is fun, so…” he waits for me to finish the sentence.

“So I should just say cheers back?” I guess.

“Exactly.”

I knock my cup against his experimentally. It’s uncomfortably hot against my gloves, and I don’t want to carry it anymore.

“Would it be rude to throw my hot cocoa away now?” I ask. “It’s burning me.”

Dean Miller takes my cup in his other hand. “I’ll carry it until it’s cooler.”

“But then it will burn you.”

He shrugs. “I’ll live. What do you say we watch a movie or something at my place?”

Dean Miller is inviting me to his apartment? If it were under any other circumstances, I would say yes, but he’s only here with me because of a work assignment.

“I don’t think you need to prepare me for social gatherings at a coworker’s house,” I say. “I’m not usually invited.”

He considers me for a moment. “I don’t think that’s true. I’ve seen people try to invite you to things. But this wouldn’t need to be a lesson. We could just spend time together for fun.”

I stop myself from asking a myriad of questions, like whether he would actually have fun spending time with me, or when he saw someone inviting me somewhere. When people want to do something with me, I think I ask too many questions, and that often leads to them quitting their jobs or being very angry with me. I don’t want to cause problems like that right now.

“Yes. I would like to watch a movie or something at your place,” I say.

He smiles and looks me up and down. “Okay. Let’s go.”

People, in general, do not look at me in that fashion. It feels like the winking. If I’m not mistaken, Dean Miller is flirting with me. I wasn’t sure before, but there have been multiple instances of suspiciously nice behavior, not to mention the way he continually tolerates my tentacle resting along the back of his neck.

“Dean Miller, are we… performing a mating ritual?” I ask.

He tries to hold back a laugh, but is unsuccessful. “What?”

“Human beings perform a set of rituals prior to mating. In American culture, they share a meal or beverage before initiating foreplay that sometimes leads to mating. Are we performing a mating ritual right now?”

Dean Miller bites his bottom lip and shoots me this mischievous look that is not a clear answer to my question one way or another. “Um, that is a very direct question.”

“Yes. Is it inappropriate for me to ask a direct question about what we’re doing?”

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