Page 21 of Aries

“Romantic,” I said. “Maybe a sheet, or something to dress it with. Perhaps even a candle.”

“Now that would be romantic.”

“Oh, I thought that was the goal. If this is just a friend thing, then I can go give the chocolate strawberries and champagne to someone else.”

His jaw became slack. “Are we—celebrating?”

“I don’t know about you, but I like to think every day is a celebration,” I told him. “It’s not every single day that you come across someone who lets you leave love bites on them and comes back for more.”

He was blushing. “I’ll make the table more romantic then.”

“Good boy.”

Ash skipped off, doing only what I could assume was giggling at the praise.

I continued making sure the food didn’t burn and chopping up some lettuce to give the dish a little green and a vegetable that wasn’t a fruit pretending to be a vegetable. I was looking at the tomato sauce.

This wasn’t the first time I’d made this dish, in fact, it was among my favorite comfort foods, and I wanted to share that with Ash.

On the table, he’d prepared it with three candles of varying sizes, each one lit with wax melting down the stem. He even had cutlery, and glasses ready for the champagne and was already sat, smiling and waiting for me.

The pasta was timed perfectly to the food in the oven. I dished it up into large plate bowls and carried them over.

“How did you like spending the afternoon with me?” I asked.

Ash smacked his lips, staring at the large portion of food.

“Find your words,” I said. “Let me grab the bottle. It’s in the fridge chilling.” His empty fridge with half-eaten takeout and expired milk.

He waited for me to get back, his hands ready at the knife and fork. “I had a lot of fun,” he said. “Your friends are super nice. And I’m less scared of tattooed people.”

I popped the cork, startling him. “You were scared of me?”

“Turned on by you, but scared of tattooed people,” he said. “It’s just a horrible stereotyping my brain never got around to correcting. Until now.”

“I’m happy to be part of that change then,” I said, pouring champagne into both our glasses. “And they liked you too, they all want to tattoo you, but that’s probably more because you’re a blank canvas and they want to be the first to stake their claim on your skin.” I sat opposite him and took my glass. “But I think I’ll always be the first. I’ve already added color to you.” I raised my glass to cheers with him.

He drank a little then burped. “Oops.”

“Let’s eat. I don’t want you wasting away on me.”

“You know, I like the love bites a lot,” he said. “I don’t think I could get it permanent, but I like the way they look on me.”

I dug my knife and fork into the food, looking him over. “I can definitely make sure you always have one or two then,” I said, wondering if I was being far too forward.

“I guess that means you’ll have to come over at least once a week,” he said, copying my knife and fork movements as he cut through the food.

“If I’m lucky, once a week. If I’m very lucky, twice a week.”

He nodded, collecting food on his fork. “And if you’re like won the lottery lucky, I could just give you a key.”

Now that was forward. I caught me off guard. I was rarely caught off guard like that anymore. “A key would be nice, but what would I use it for?”

“Letting yourself in when I’m painting,” he said.

He had a point, I suppose. I knew the artistic process was a bitch to get into sometimes, and whenever I was disturbed mid-drawing, it was very annoying. After eating the first bit of food and realizing how great it was, I relaxed into the idea he’d suggested.

“What you’re proposing is we do this more often,” I said. “And I’d like that.”

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