Page 38 of Spinning Out Of Control

I let out a low whistle.

“Going right for the big guns, huh?”

“I think it’s a fair question. You are a million years older than me,” she shrugs.

“Twenty years, Kira. And no. I’ve never been married. Got close once, a long time ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. Dianna and I were together for five years. We met after I moved to San Francisco from Los Angeles. She’s a wonderful woman, but there was no spark. We would have had a very quiet, very boring life together. In the end, we’re both lucky to have figured out that quiet and boring isn’t what either of us wanted. She’s married to a guitarist now, currently traveling on tour with him and his band. I went to their wedding. It was lovely.”

“Did you get lucky at Dianna and the guitarist’s wedding?” Kira asks, a smile on her face. But I detect the jealousy hiding beneath her facade.

“In all my millions of years, I’ve only ever gotten lucky at one wedding.”

Kira hums, reaching overhead to pluck a golden-brown leaf off a low-hanging branch.

“What about kids? Do you want them?”

“I’ve always wanted kids. A bunch of little rugrats running around, creating mayhem. That was another place Dianna and I didn’t quite fit. But I don’t know. Maybe I’m too old for all that now. If it doesn’t happen for me…” I shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t have brothers or sisters that will give me nieces and nephews. It’s a lonely thing to think about, so I try not to.”

Kira pauses her steps, looking up at me with something that resembles recognition in her eyes. My stomach coils when I realize I’ve basically just admitted to her that I am a lonely, aging man who’s all but given up on any kind of family in the future–something I’ve never admitted aloud to anyone else. I clear my throat.

“Do you want kids? Or is that something you’re too young to have thought about?” I ask, brushing her arm with my own.

“Unfortunately, I’m a woman with a ticking biological clock. Even if I am two whole decades younger than you, there's no such thing “too young” to think about having kids. And yes, I would like to have at least one. And I’ve always thought about being a surrogate for someone too, if all my parts are in working order. I’d like to pay it forward, give someone their family the way Tía Camila did for my dads.”

Images of Kira holding a perfect little baby with mydark hair and her grey eyes dance before me, and my stomach knots. I shouldn’t be having those thoughts, shouldn’t be picturing her soft, tanned belly round and full because I put a baby inside of her.

“Is it crazy that I’m hungry? That curry was to die for earlier, but I feel like I could pass out right about now.”

I chuckle at Kira’s interruption of my errant racing thoughts, realizing that I’d been holding my breath.

“Not at all,” I say in agreement. “In fact, I have a theory.”

“A theory about hunger?”

“Yes. You know how Disneyworld has those scent pump things? The smellitizers that make the park smell like popcorn and turkey legs to encourage guests to eat more?”

“I’ve heard of that, but I thought it was a rumor. Like how Walt’s body is frozen underneath Cinderella’s castle or whatever.”

“No, it’s true. The smellitizers, not Walt’s cryogenically frozen corpse. That one is still up in the air. But anyway, I have this theory that Central Park also uses smellitizers. They’re in the trees, and they pump out the dirty water hot dog smell that makes your stomach growl. That’s why when you’re walking around the park, all you can think about is hot dogs.”

“Hmm,” she hums, nodding her head. “I can see that. The city probably has some sort of deal with thevendors where they get a kickback for every hot dog sold between Fifth Avenue and Central Park West.”

“Exactly!” I agree, placing my hand on her lower back and leading her across the walkway to one of the aforementioned hot dog stands. Touching her like this is a risk, but to my delight, she doesn’t shy away, even as we approach the silver cart.

“What can I get ya?” The man in the blue baseball cap asks in an accent so thick, for a moment I wonder if we’ve walked into some sort of sitcom set in Brooklyn in the nineties.

“We’ll get two dogs with sauerkraut and brown mustard, thanks.” She orders quickly and the vendor gets to work, slapping hot dogs on to warm buns while I give Kira a quizzical look. Normally, I’m a plain hot dog kind of person, which should come as no surprise. As Kira pointed out last night, I am British, and we’re not known for our fine palettes. If I’m feeling kooky, I might indulge in a bit of ketchup. But typically, the meat and bun satisfy me just fine.

I hand over a twenty-dollar bill for the two hot dogs and a bottle of water, telling the man to keep the change. We find a nearby bench, and Kira has her food halfway to her mouth before her butt hits the cool metal.

I watch in fascination as she bites off half in one go, not just because the phallic-shaped food in her mouth is making me feel like a giddy teenager, but also because she manages not to get a spot of mustard on her lips.

When I notice her arching a brow at me, having caught me staring, I clear my throat and gesture behind her. There’s a plaque on the back of the bench, like many of the benches here in Central Park. But this one’s inscription catches my eye.

“I am much more me when I am with you.” - Unknown.

---