Aftershock

The Favorite-Restaurant-Since-The-Forties Card

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Steve

I'm expecting Tony to arrive fashionably late, but he's almost exactly on time. 8:03pm, to be exact. I raise my eyebrows involuntarily when I see him, standing on my doorstep all decked out in what must be his fanciest suit. It's deep red, probably silk, with a tasteful black dress shirt and tie. I don't know if I've ever seen him so gussied up. Or, rather, he's never gotten that gussied up for me.

"You clean up well," I say, stepping aside to let him enter my foyer.

He stomps the snow off his shoes. "Thanks, doll, I put gel in my hair for you. You better make it worth it."

I laugh slightly. Maybe I'm bad at reading sarcasm, or maybe I'm just bad at reading Tony, but I still can't quite tell when he's kidding.

"I can only hope," I say. A silence passes between us. He's looking at me expectantly, mouth crooked in one of his signature smirks. "So...uh...how do you feel about pasta?"

"Pasta," he repeats.

I nod.

"If you take me to Olive Garden, looking like this, I swear to god, I will smack you."

"Not Olive Garden. Trust me, I think you'll like it," I say. I offer my elbow, which he accepts hesitantly, threading his arm through mine and hooking them together.

"Hmm, but do I trust you?" he says, and this time I'm almost positive that he's kidding because his smirk has broken out into a full-faced grin.

I lead him out of my apartment and lock the door after us. "I'm driving," I say.

"Good, because I only brought the one suit."

I scan his face. I don't think he's joking this time, either. "You flew here?"

"I was excited, alright? I haven't been on a date in like five years. Sue me."

I open the passenger door and allow Tony to slide in before taking up the drivers seat. "I'm excited, too," I say, quietly.

Tony cups a hand around his ear. "Hm? What was that?"

I clip in and gesture for him to do the same. He does, albeit begrudgingly. "I'm excited, Tony." He sits back, assuming his default shit-eating grin. "Sounds even better the second time around. You gotta get me a voice recording of that."

"You're a piece of work."

"Guilty as charged."

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The drive there is mostly devoid of conversation; I don't think either of us have the right words to say. There are so many things we've swept under the rug for so long, that peeling it back is anxiety-inducing. Tony fills the void with 80's rock blasted over the radio. He knows the words to most of the songs. I sneak glances at him every now and then, looking away when he tries to catch my eye.

"You're not slick, you know," he says.

"Maybe I wasn't trying to be."

"Oh, so you want me to know that you're checking me out? Kinky."

"Stop distracting the driver."

He's quiet for a while longer, alternating between staring out the windshield and passenger window. I catch the motions out of the corner of my eye. It's strange; for so long I've known Tony as a colleague, an enemy, a hesitant friend, yet I've never been so hyper aware of his presence. Every sniff, shift, adjustment of his seatbelt, it's all a concrete reminder that we're really doing this. This is actually happening. Oh god, I wish he would pinch me. Or punch me. Either one would feel more familiar.