Page 22 of Hiss and Tell
They file out with surprising compliance, but Iris pauses at the door. “We only want you to be happy, dear. You give so much to everyone else. It’s time you had someone who thinks you’re as special as we do.”
The sincerity in her voice deflates my irritation. “I know. But I can handle this.”
“Of course you can.” She pats my cheek. “But you don’t have to handle it alone.”
After they leave, I stare at my phone. The cursor blinks in an empty text message to Aspen. What do I even say? “My elderly neighbors have invaded my apartment with romantic intentions?” “Help, I’m being matchmaked to death?”
My reflection in my phone’s black screen shows exactly what I’m trying to hide—pupils slightly dilated, jaw clenched with barely restrained irritation, the line of my shoulders tense with power I don’t let myself use.
This is what I look like when the careful control slips, when the predatory nature I keep leashed starts to surface. It’s a good reminder of why I work so hard to stay gentle, accommodating—because the alternative would terrify most humans. My snakes sense my internal struggle, some rising aggressively while others attempt to soothe, and their conflicted movements mirror my own emotional state perfectly.
Finally, I type: Would you be interested in dinner at my place next Saturday evening? Fair warning: my neighbors insist on helping me cook, and tell me they’re staying to eat. They’re very enthusiastic. Possibly too enthusiastic. I’ll understand if you want to run away. Far away.
Her response comes quickly:Only if you promise to tell me EVERYTHING about how this conversation went down. Also, should I be concerned about food safety (if your chopstick skills are any indication?)
Relief floods through me. Yes, my neighbors are taking over my kitchen. Yes, this could end in complete disaster. But somehow, Aspen’s teasing makes it all seem manageable.
I text back:I promise to wash my hands and use proper utensils. You don’t have to worry about chopstick-related injuries—or kitchen fires.I pause a moment and then send another message: I hope.
The next few days pass in a whirlwind of cooking lessons (“No, Sebastian, that’s not how you julienne!”), wardrobe interventions (“Navy is not your only option!”), and increasingly detailed instructions about proper dinner party etiquette.
By Saturday afternoon, my apartment has been transformed. The table Iris deemed “sadly bachelor-like” now sports an elegant tablecloth. As I adjust the place settings, my thoughts get derailed as I imagine Aspen sitting here, how the candlelight will play across her face. Every detail feels charged with possibility, with all the things I’m not supposed to be feeling for my fake girlfriend.
But it’s not just nervousness making my hands unsteady—it’s anticipation that goes deeper than human attraction. My enhanced senses are already imagining her scent filling my space, the sound of her heartbeat, the warmth of her skin.
The predatory part of my nature that I keep so carefully contained whispers dangerous things about claiming territory, about showing her exactly what it means to be desired by something inhuman. My snakes react to these thoughts by rising higher, their scales brightening with excitement, and I have to consciously will them back to a more civilized arrangement.
“The sauce needs stirring!” Mabel calls from the kitchen.
“The wine needs breathing!” Dorothy adds.
“Your hair needs… something.” Iris frowns at my snakes, who are doing their best to behave. “Can’t you make them more… romantic?”
“They’re snakes, not mood lighting!”
But even as I’m grousing, I capitulate and return to my bedroom to put my fanciest white satin bow ties on my snakes. It took forever because as soon as I tied the first tie, they were all obnoxiously preening in front of the mirror, making it hard to wrangle them into any semblance of order.
Each time I catch my reflection in the mirror, I’m struck by how different I look when I’m not trying to make myself smaller. The anticipation of seeing Aspen has awakened something in my posture—shoulders back, spine straight, snakes arranged like a living crown rather than something to be hidden. This is what I could look like all the time if I weren’t so afraid of intimidating people. This is what a Gorgon looks like when he stops apologizing for existing.
The doorbell rings at exactly seven. My heart jumps as I open it to find Aspen in a simple green dress that makes her eyes sparkle. She takes in my apartment with raised eyebrows.
“Wow. When you said enthusiastic… Has this place been power-washed?”
“Sebastian!” Mabel bustles out of the kitchen. “Don’t leave her standing in the doorway! Where are your manners?”
What follows is simultaneously the most awkward and the most entertaining dinner of my life. My neighbors alternate between trying to be subtle matchmakers (they’re not) and sharing increasingly embarrassing stories about me.
“And then,” Dorothy wheezes through laughter, “the book cart just rolled right over the curb and down the street! Poor Sebastian chasing after it in the rain!”
“Luckily, it was just paperback donations,” I add, but Aspen’s giggle makes it hard to maintain my dignity.
“What about that time with Mrs. Bristol’s cat?” Mabel prompts.
“No cat stories!” But my snakes betray me by acting out the incident, making Aspen laugh harder.
Somehow, between the stories and the actually decent coq au vin (Mabel’s a miracle worker), something shifts. The awkwardness fades. Conversation flows. Even my snakes relax, though Evangeline keeps sneaking glances at Aspen when she thinks no one’s looking.
It’s only later, after my neighbors finally leave with far too many knowing looks, that I realize I’ve spent the whole evening watching Aspen’s smile and wondering if maybe my meddlesome neighbors aren’t entirely wrong about everything.
