Plus, being brutally honest, I’ve never found it worth the time. I’d like to think I would be willing to make those compromises if it was worth it, but it just never is. The sex isn’t good enough. The emotions aren’t strong enough. The guy’s jokes aren’t funny enough. And after a certain amount of time, it all becomes so boring. The magic, whatever little there was, is gone. Poof! Up in the air. And I’m left with a man in my house, taking up space in my bed, farting liberally and unselfconsciously, and usually stealing food from my fridge.
Just not worth it.
“Well, do you?”
I realize he’s talking to me, repeating a question even, and I shake my head out of my morbid, spinster reverie.
“I’m sorry, what did you ask?”
His thighs flex again beneath my gaze and I feel my resolve weakening. I wonder how much he would have to steal from my fridge before I’d kick him out of bed.
Let’s find out, the little voice in my head whispers. How, exactly? I’m tempted to ask. Drag him home, lock ourselves inside and wait until I get bored?
Yes. Exactly that.
I roll my eyes at the horny, lonely part of me which refuses to listen to reason, the part that watches the lines of his forearm, the curve of muscle disappearing just under the roll of his Henley shirt. The part of me which would happily commit kidnapping just to see if my lust is misguided.
He’s looking at me again, glancing between the road and my face. Probably wondering why I’m rolling my eyes at him when he’s just asked me a question.
“I’m sorry, what? My mind is all over the place.”
“I said, do you go to Dory’s often?”
Dory’s.
Right.
We’re in his car, driving downtown, to grab some food.
“Yes,” I nod, prying my eyes from his delicious denim and back on the road, focusing more on the shimmer of late afternoon sun and less on his perfect thighs. “It’s one of my favorite spots.”
“Good for dates?”
“This isn’t a date,” I say quickly, too quickly, the words tripping over themselves as they tumble from my mouth.
He laughs again, that deep, dark rumble I feel along the back of my neck and between my legs. I feel my face heat and I don’t know if I’m embarrassed or aroused.
“What do you have against dating me, Jane?”
I press my lips together. Before I can come up with a witty retort, he continues. “Besides, I didn’t mean to imply it was. I was asking about your other dates.”
What other dates? I want to blurt out, but stop myself, a thread of pride preventing my honesty.
“Well,” I shift in my seat and clear my throat, preparing my lie. “It’s very pretty and Dory keeps fresh flowers on the table in the spring and summer. In winter, it’s mistletoe and berries, and in autumn she puts little pumpkins out. The menu changes seasonally, most of the produce comes from the farmer’s market, and when the sun goes down, she puts up twinkle lights and candles.”
“Sounds romantic.”
“It does, doesn’t it.” I pause, rolling my many visits to Dory’s cafe through my mind. It is a romantic spot. Quiet and clean and subdued. The floor is set up in a U-shape around the counter where Philippe displays his magnificent cakes, so couples can tuck themselves away from prying eyes. The fresh flowers and baked goodies scent the air, and she’s usually playing some sort of slow jazz, just soft enough that you have to lean closer to hear it.
Why the hell did he suggest it?
“We can go somewhere else,” I say. Again, too quickly. “Bob’s clam hut, up the road, closer to the coast is great. And Wednesdays are buck-a-shuck.”
“What is buck-a-shuck?” he asks, laughing again. I cross my legs, willing my body to stop responding to his rumbles.
“Oysters. One dollar each. Every Wednesday after six.”
“Hmm. I like oysters.”
“Old Bay does add-on lobster on Wednesdays. Add a lobster to any entree for ten dollars.”
“What?” He turns to me, eye disbelieving and I forget I’m not talking to a local. “You can just add a lobster to anything you order.”
“Sure.”
“Even, like, a burger?”
“Of course. Gotta have a lobster with your burger.” I smile. I always enjoy introducing outsiders to New England ways.
“That’s crazy.”
“Crazy’s when you add it to ice cream.”
He laughs again, louder this time, teeth shining, throat bobbing. I have a strong, strong urge to lean across the car and lick his throat. Instead, I slide my hands under both legs and sit on them.
“Who adds lobster to ice cream?”
“Not many people.”
“So that’s too far, even for this town?”
“No,” I shake my head, “but the special is only for entrees. So, you wouldn’t get the discount.”
“What if you ordered ice cream as your entree?”
I shrug, “That’s not very good for you.”
“What if you feel like being bad?” His voice lowers, eyes stay straight ahead, but I feel like he’s watching me, enjoying my discomfort.
I clear my throat, loudly, awkwardly, with enough force to break the tension. “If you want lobster-flavored ice cream so bad, you’d just order it from Sally’s.”
“Who’s Sally?” His hands cross over each other and I see main street in front of us. I point to a free space on our right and he pulls in.
“Sally’s Dairy Delights. Off 295. Best lobster ice cream in the state.”
He puts the car in park, but leaves his hand on the stick as he stares. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”
“Joking about what?” I reach to unbuckle my seatbelt.
“Lobster flavored ice cream?”
“Of course. It’s famous.”
“Is…” he looks at me. “Is it good?”
I shrug. “It’s pink. People drive all the way up from Boston for it. But I don’t really like it.” I unbuckle my seatbelt.
“You think it’s gross?”
“No,” I grin and open the door. “I just prefer clam.”
11
David
It is a romantic place. I look around as we get out of the car. The whole town, in fact. Like something out of a movie, is what people
