Page 31 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas
“Yes,” he said. “I am an idiot! I let the love of my life slippery through my flingers because I was too proud to let her dream job dictation where we lived.”
Kate shook her head.
“That’s soooo sad,” she said, flopping her hand on Oliver’s knee.
“I thought I’d be compromolising my own happiness by going with her,” said Oliver. “But it turned out, breaking up with her compromolised my happiness anyway.”
“You should tell her!” said Kate, swinging her glass in the air as she spoke. “You should tell her that you’ve comonise. Cosmonprised. Ruined your happiness.”
“No,” he said. “She deserves better. She’s gelling along with ’er own life again. I can’t jus’ bowl in there and tell ’er I made a mislake. She deserves to behic-hic-hic-happy.”
“You’re sooooo lovely,” said Kate. “Sooooo romantic.” She leaned her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand. “You’re like a book I read once,” she told him.
“Wha was it called?” asked Oliver.
“I dunno,” said Kate. “Maybe...Book.”
And whal abou’ you?” asked Oliver. “Why are you always the brisemaid and never the brise?”
“Because I’m picky,” said Kate. “And spiky! Like a cactus!”
Kate made claws of her hands in an attempt to look cactus-ish.
“I don’t think you’re spiky,” said Oliver.
“You don’t?” asked Kate.
“No,” he assured her. “And you’re not green.”
He had leaned down across the table so that his face was level with hers. “I think you’re great,” he said. “And really, really pretty.”
“No, I’m not,” said Kate. “I wore the wrong dress. This dress is not sexy. Corduroy is not sexy like leather. I should have been sexy! Even my date did’n’ like the look of me!”
“I think you’re very sexy,” said Oliver. “I think corduroy is a very sexy fabric. Leather is made from a cow.”
Kate laughed. She tried to shake her boobs but sloshed her cocktail over herself. Oliver leaned over and haphazardly wiped at the spilled drink with a napkin.
“I’m mopping your boobs,” said Oliver.
“They don’t mind,” said Kate.
“I think you’re the prettiest girl in the bar,” said Oliver. “I’m very pleased that I got to be your consololation prize.”
“Aww, thanks, Oliver,” Kate replied. “I think you’re pretty too.”
“I going to kiss you now,” said Oliver. “I’ve been wanting to kiss your face for about an hour.”
He leaned closer to Kate and their lips met. Kate was drunk and relaxed and Oliver tasted delicious. He pulled her around the table toward him and wrapped his arms around her, and Kate let herself be blissfully swept into his embrace.
They kissed for a long time. It was good. He was a good kisser. It had been a long time since Kate had been kissed like that. The rest of the night was a perfectly lovely blur.
•••••
It was Sunday morning. Kate opened her eyes and closed them again quickly. She groaned. The sounds of crockery being clanked togetherdown in the kitchen forced her to become more alert. She sat and held her head. She kicked off the patchwork eiderdown that covered her. She was fully clothed, right down to her shoes.
“Oh God,” she moaned, and peeled herself off the bed. “Dad, is that you?” she called softly as she shuffled down the stairs.
She kept a tight hold on the banister and shielded her eyes from the brilliant winter sun that flooded the kitchen.
