Written with Love

Not A Caramel Apple

"Where are we going?" I ask, tugging the hem of my dress down my thigh we walk, hyperaware of the fact that it's January in Washington, and I left my giant puffy jacket back at the dorm in favor of a thin leather coat. Meaning, I am very close to freezing to death, on top of the fact I'm blindly following a man I don't know. I told Sasha I was leaving the party at least, and gave her strict instructions to call if I didn't text within the next couple of hours, but still. I don't even know the guy's name.

"I thought we could eat something. I'm buying you dinner." The street is quiet, so it isn't like I misheard him, but I'm confused by his words. I turn to ask one of the many follow-up questions that just came to mind and accidentally miss a step, tripping on a sidewalk crack and stumbling forward. 

His arm is at my waist before I even register the tumble, and I freeze, barely breathing, as his eyes meet mine.

There is still heat in them, a melty, liquid quality to his navy gaze that's almost dizzying and I take it as an invitation to lean forward, ever so slightly pressing myself against him. He's really cute, which I already knew, but the way his mouth quirks up in the corner reinforces it.

He has a little scar, right below where his unfairly long eyelashes brushed the skin of his cheek, and I suddenly, desperately, want to know where it came from. 

"Is dinner okay?" I flush, realizing the heat of his body has distracted me from his words. I step back, tugging again at the hem of my dress, shivering as cold air hits the spot his hand had been.

"It's, like, eleven." That isn't the only part of the plan I'm hesitant about, but I can't say I'm thinking very clearly, and given that I am currently shivering on an empty sidewalk in the woodsier part of UW's campus, gently rain-glazed evergreens stretching up around us, it feels like the most pressing one. It feels, a little, like we are the only people around for miles. 

"I know a place."

"And it's open now?" That's a stupid question, of course it would be. Anywhere along the Ave, the road that stretches parallel to campus and has all the best spots to eat, is open at all kinds of crazy hours. Again, not thinking clearly. Not quite recalibrated to this new set of evening plans. 

"Of course." He waits for me to respond, gaze steady. I haven't decided yet, whether to be flattered or offended that he thought I wanted dinner instead of... something else, and a low level of embarrassment rises in my chest as I think of how obvious I'd been earlier. I'm not usually like that, but something about his eyes, the way he looked at me and is still looking at me, makes it impossible to avoid the fact that want him. Really, really want him.

"Just so we're on the same page, I say 'somewhere quieter' and you thought food?"

His mouth quirks again, this time with what looks suspiciously like embarrassment.

"I think I said somewhere quieter, actually. And the thought was a little more like, 'that might just be the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, I wonder if she likes tacos.'"

I can't help it, I laugh, and he looks pleased with himself.

"Or not tacos. I also know where to find a mean chicken sandwich, or ice cream if you're not in a dinner mood. Or onion rings, if you're not in an anything mood, and just want to be wowed by the history-making human invention of the deep-fry machine."

"History-making?" 

"Yes, history-making. Deep-frying things is the modern equivalent of Prometheus's fire. There are Wikipedia pages to back that up." 

"There is no way you actually believe that." At some point, we started walking again, and he whips toward me, something akin to suspicion in his eyes.