Page 11 of A Merry Christmas for Art… and His Tentacles

His eyes soften. “No, Art. It isn’t. In fact, it’s kind of refreshing.”

That still isn’t an answer. It’s all so frustrating. I desperately want to understand what I’m doing here with Dean Miller so I don’t mess this up the way I mess up everything, but he won’t tell me what's really going on.

“What if I did want this to be a… mating ritual, for lack of a better term?” Dean Miller asks.

“Why is that not a good term?”

“It just makes us sound like animals,” he says.

“Homosapiens are animals. They’re a type of primate. I’m also a cephalopod, which is a type of mollusk?—”

He sets our hot cocoas down on a table near the entrance and grabs my hands. His fingers feel warmer than the hot cocoa, even with the barrier of my gloves. “Yes, I would like to perform a mating ritual with you.”

It’s a lot to have Dean Miller looking into my eyes and holding my hands while he says something like that. His words make my stomach fill with butterflies.

“Is that okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” I answer immediately, even though I’ve never performed a mating ritual before.

“Good.” He releases my hands and reaches for our hot cocoas, which is a relief in some ways. I’ve never liked direct eye contact. I miss the pressure of his hand, though. Just before he starts walking again, he holds out his elbow expectantly. Before I get a chance to react, one of my tentacles winds itself around his arm. His eyes burn into mine, and for a moment, I understandwhat he means by not wanting to label whatever this is as animalistic behavior. It feels too special for that.

People stare at my tentacle wrapped around his arm as we walk out into the cold, but Dean Miller doesn’t seem to mind. The stares continue on the sidewalk and at the crosswalk. I feel my metachrosis response kicking in. I can’t help it. I desperately hope Dean Miller doesn’t notice. But then he glances over at me. I watch his face closely. I highly doubt it’s polite for someone to physically disappear when they’re involved in a mating ritual with someone. To make matters worse, my tentacle coils tighter around his arm.

“It’s okay, Art. My apartment is just another block from here.”

His voice is deep and soothing. A part of me wants to shift completely into my cephalopod form and crawl on his back so I can completely disappear. But that would be too weird, and I paid a lot of money for this coat. I can’t abandon it on the side of the road like a cephalopod kid on their first day of kindergarten.

Dean Miller takes a sip of his hot cocoa. “This is really good. You should try yours. It will warm you up.” He holds out my drink.

I take it from him gingerly. If we are performing a mating ritual, I’m fairly certain I need to drink a beverage. That’s part of the ritual. I bring the steaming cup to my mouth and take a drink. It’s hot and sinfully sweet.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“I can understand why it’s addictive.”

“Is that your way of admitting that it’s delicious?” He doesn’t look at me while he asks the question, which is a relief, since I’m actively trying to blend into my environment.

“Maybe,” I say.

He smiles and turns toward a yellow brick building with a dark wooden front door. “This is me.”

I wait as he pulls out his key and unlocks the deadbolt. The hallway inside has worn carpet and the paint is a little banged up, but overall it isn’t bad for a human dwelling. Cephalopod shifters normally pursue careers in finance, so we don’t have to live in places like this. Dean Miller walks down a hallway of doors to the last one on the right. A worn mat says, “Welcome” in black cursive letters.

Cephalopod shifters also don’t have doormats that welcome strangers inside.

“I don’t know what kind of movies you like,” he says, unlocking yet another deadbolt. His door opens right into the small kitchen with a countertop that doubles as a table, judging by the two stools tucked into it and the lack of a kitchen table. The living room is tiny as well but has a large window leading out onto a patio.

“I rarely watch television. It has a negative impact on cognitive function,” I tell him before realizing watching television is probably a “fun” activity. “But it’s fine if you want to sacrifice your cognitive function to have fun.”

Dean Miller lets out a breathy laugh. “If it makes you feel any better, pretending to watch a movie is a common mating ritual.”

I feel my cheeks grow hot. “You mean…”

Dean Miller steps closer, until our faces are only a few inches apart. “People usually put on a movie when they want to cuddle with someone or kiss them.”

“Why don’t they just say so?” I ask.

“Dating is a dance, Art. Just like male birds who display their plume of feathers or penguins who give their crush a pebble. I’m hoping this dance will get me closer to you.” He says that, but then he steps away and heads for the scuffed up couch in the living room, removing his coat and hat. He sits down and stares up at me expectantly. “Come sit with me.”

---