The Art of Moving On | ✔

CHAPTER NINE; part one

     We're back in the car. It's dark outside. I'm huddling into my jacket for warmth and I suddenly want more of the night with him. I'm hoping he feels the same. He turns the car on and cool air bursts through the vents.

     We wait for it to warm and Dres asks, "Are you hungry?"

     "I can eat," I respond because I've honestly eaten my nerves away in popcorn and skittles, but I always have room for food. It's a side effect of being a gluttonous pig, unfortunately.

     "What do you feel like?" he asks, glancing at me.

     "Welllll, there's a Taco Bell down the street," I say with a shrug. "And a Wendy's. McDonald's isn't too far, either."

     "You know that food isn't good for you, right?" Dres says but starts driving in the direction of the Taco Bell. Good. I suggested it first because it was actually what I wanted.

     "That's an argument of semantics, really," I tell him. He glances at me questioningly, nodding at me to go on. "We'd have to define what good means in terms of lifestyle choices and health. And my taste buds would beg to differ. They find fast food to be quite good."

     "Good as in not going to kill you," Dres remarks.

    "McDonald's doesn't kill you. Obesity kills you."

     Dres rolls his eyes. We're a safe distance away from each other in the car that I can turn to look at him now without it being a threat to my mental stability. "McDonald's causes obesity, obesity leads to death, ergo McDonald's leads to death."

     "Diet is not the only factor in obesity. And obesity doesn't lead to death. It can cause heart disease, which can lead to death. Ergo McDonald's is heavenly and if you die, at least you'll die satisfied."

     "It sounds like you'd take a bullet for McDonald's."

     "I feel very strongly about Fast Food."

     "I see that."

     "I would grow old with Fast Food."

     "Uh huh."

     "I'd marry Fast Food."

     "Sounds legal." Dres rolls through the drive-thru and asks, "What am I ordering?"

     "I like hard tacos," I say as I reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet. "Secret menu item. Chicken tacos. They'll blow your mind."

     "Can I get a box of that?" he asks.

     "Probably. Here." I go to hand him a twenty.

     He glances at my outstretched hand and goes, "Put that away."

     "Really? This is starting to feel sexist."

     Dres looks at me while we sit in the line for the pickup window. "How do you figure?"

     "Okay, fine, maybe not sexist. But definitely age-ist."

     "That's not a thing," Dres says as we pull up to the last window, grab the box of the tacos, and get back on the road, heading to Private Weston's.

     We're on the last leg of our maybe/maybe not (probably not) date. I don't want it to end.

     I get out once Dres finishes parking and follow him around the building to the front. The place is basically empty. Dolores is reading a book at the counter, and greets us pleasantly when we enter, "How was the movie?"

     Dres doesn't say anything, so I stop and go, "It was funny. Matt Damon was great."

     "Oh, I like him. Good looking fellow."

     I nod, saying, "Couldn't agree more" as Dres calls, "Cas, your food's going to get cold." I smile at Dolores before I follow after Dres into the kitchen.

     "Aren't you eating any?" I ask as I sit down at the island and pop open the box. Dres is at the fridge, pulling out a brown wooden bowl. 

     "No, I don't eat that crap," he says as he grabs a fork from a metal canister on the counter. He takes a seat next to me.

     "Why did you get a whole box then?" I ask incredulously.

     "You ate like seven slices of pizza yesterday," Dres goes. I hesitate for a second as I realize, again, that this means Dres was watching me. I wonder how often he does that.

     "Yeah, because I just had a swim meet. I needed to replenish my carbs."

     He looks at me questioningly. "You're telling me you can't eat twelve tacos?"

     I look at him like he's crazy and decide not to answer that, partially because I probably can eat twelve tacos. I won't really like myself afterwards but it's definitely something I can do.

     "What're you eating?" I decide to ask, pointing to his bowl. It must be some kind of goulash, maybe. I recognize shrimp, some baby tomatoes, sliced avocado.

     "A salad," he says like it should be obvious. "It's good for you."

     "What is all that in there?" I ask after I take a bite into my taco, without remorse, swirling my finger in the general direction of what I'm still going to refer to as goulash.

     "There's couscous, basil, oranges, olives, some feta cheese," he trails, probably noticing my expression of disgust. "It's good and it's good for you." My expression doesn't change. He holds up a forkful. "Try it," he says.

     "No shot," I respond with a shake of my head. "Quite satisfied with my tacos. Thanks though. Thanks so much for the offer."

     "Come on, try it. It won't kill you. The same can't be said for those tacos."

     I force a laugh. Dres thinks he's funny but he's most definitely. Especially when he's making fun of my beloved taco bell.

     He waves the fork in front of me, and if being fed by Dres means stomaching some health-nut concoction, I think I'm willing to take the L.

     "You might even like it," he says teasingly, and fuck it. I lean forward, open my mouth, think about the sexual implications of opening my mouth, and close it around the fork.

     He definitely didn't skimp on the forkful. I taste the avocado, which is zesty and flavorful with a hint of orange and then there's the weird texture of the couscous.

     "It's not so bad," I say after I swallow and Dres gives me a look like he's gloating. "But I'll stick with tacos."

     "That doesn't even look like real meat," he says shaking his head.

     "Tastes like it." I take another bite. "And that's what really matters."

     Dres rolls his eyes and I laugh. Sitting here with him like this it's hard to believe that there's a chance this isn't a date and that he doesn't feel the same way I feel about him.