Page 43 of Cakes for the Grump
We’re breathing in air, but fighting for who gets the most of it between our mouths. Inching closer territorially, not wanting to back down an inch lest the other thinks to gain victory. Noses brush. Eyes close. The faintest whisper of mouth against mouth.
Then somewhere behind us, a man with a booming voice begins to sing a Beatles song.
It’s broken. The trance. We jerk our faces away.
“I-I tripped,” I justify as if an explanation is needed.
“So did I,” he says, matching my fighting words.
“Stop holding me. I’m fine,” I say, rather snappishly, lifting my ankle in the air to roll it as if imminent evidence is needed.
“Can you walk?”
I wave his concern away. “Yes. I’m an adult. A very buzzed adult, but an adult nonetheless. I won’t expire in the middle of the streets if left alone.You may leave in good conscience and go back to the bar. There is no need to ruin your night.”
“You don’t ownoutside. Maybe I require air too.”
“Really? I’m surprised the iron heart of yoursrequiresoxygen.”
“Is that the best you got? How lacking, Rita.”
I don’t meet his taunt with anything more than a lazy, “You’re the worst.” Much better to prioritize reaching home so I can sink into my comforter, and forget the details of the night. Not wonder if we—almost—kissed? It can’t be. The last minute was an illusion.
He must agree, because he takes in a deep breath and releases it slowly as if very tired himself.
We continue walking beside each other, noticeably careful in our movements so as not to accidentally come into contact again. Not that it means I forget Luke is there. Ifeelhim walking beside me too loudly in the relatively quiet street. As if our atoms are awake under sulfurous lights, buzzing without words.
“Did you have fun tonight?” he asks, eventually breaking our silence. As if needing to orient ourselves back on polite, formal ground.
“No.”
“Good. I didn’t either.”
“Where did you learn how to dance?” I ask after we turn the corner.
“Classes.”
We’re falling back to our old morning Q&A sessions.
“Aren’t you from Ohio?” I ask. “I wasn’t aware the city is known for its dancing.”
“My father took me cabining to hunt deer in dirty clothes one day, and the next, dressed me up in a suit to rip off money from investors. The second required me to know how to dance.”
I’m more than a little sad imagining a little boy tossed between two worlds with no autonomy of his own. What’s his relationship with his father like now? That article I’d read speculated, but the media gets it wrong all the time.
“...Which activity did you prefer?”
“Neither,” he says.
That tells me a lot, but also doesn’t tell me enough. So how does Luke Abbot want to live? What version of reality does he want to exist in? What does he want to do?
Before I can ask, he looks up at the sky. “It’s starting to rain.”
“Barely.”
“I’m calling you a cab.”
“No. I’m only twenty minutes away. You can go in one if you want.”
