Page 24 of The Woman in the Garage

“What can I say? I’m not a very traditional guy,” I said.

“I have a feeling that’s a very untrue statement,” she said, watching my profile. “So, what movie is playing?” she asked as we got closer to the park, both sides of the street lined with cars,the field already dappled with couples and groups of teens. No kids in sight, so not a kid movie, then.

“I have no idea,” I admitted.

“That kind of makes it more fun,” Dasha declared. “Would it be silly to go under that weeping willow?” she asked, gesturing toward the tree in question, sitting a few feet away from the bank where a small stream trickled.

It would give the illusion of more privacy.

“Sounds perfect,” I decided, making a beeline for it before someone else snatched it up.

Dasha let me spread the blanket, then sat down on it with her legs cocked to the side, her skirt tucked between her thighs so it didn’t fly up in the slight breeze.

“Oh, you remembered drinks and utensils,” she said, sounding both relieved and surprised.

“How were we supposed to eat without utensils?”

“I’m just not used to gu… people who think ahead like that,” she said.

She meant guys.

She was used to being around men who couldn’t even remember something as basic as utensils. Which made me wonder in what other ways those guys let her down, who didn’t appreciate how good they had it.

“Oh, my God. This smells amazing,” she said, taking a long sniff at the feast she’d placed between us, each dish in their separate aluminum foil containers, the plastic tops trapping a little sweat.

“I picked all the best items. Though, honestly, you can’t go wrong with anything on the menu.”

We’d managed to get the food mostly cut up by the time the opening credits of the movie started.

“Oh, I’d know this opening sequence anywhere,” Dasha said, smiling. “It’sYou’ve Got Mail.”

“That’s a rom-com, right?”

“You’ve never seen it?” she asked, her mouth falling open.

“Nope.”

“You’re in for a treat. Rom-coms of the ‘90s were elite. Okay. I’m gonna shut up now,” she said as the song quieted on the screen.

I knew I was supposed to be watching the movie. She was going to want to discuss it afterward. But I spent just as much time watching Dasha watch the movie. And the way her tongue would slip out and lick sauce off her lip after she had a bite of ravioli, lasagna, or baked ziti.

I bet she tasted like that sauce too. Acidic with a hint of sweet and that tang of cheese.

Christ.

I needed to get a grip.

But if I stopped looking, I would miss the way her face lit up when she laughed; how her lips pouted when the characters weren’t getting along; how her eyes went all fucking swoony when the hero of the movie finally stopped being an antagonist and worked on wooing the heroine.

“Best ending,” she said, looking over after the camera panned away from the couple kissing. “I mean, even though you know it’s going to be a happy ending, it’s a great one. It’s great, right? I think I love the romance movies from the ‘90s best because they’re not all full of social media and phones. It’s all just more… organic.”

Organic.

Like her happening to be my new client.

Like running across her stranded on the side of the road.

Like happening to be at the same pizza place at the same time.

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