Page 65 of Holiday Romance
“No theater,” he says. “Museums and galleries are tough. Everyone has their own pace and they can be tiring too. A bookshop can be romantic, but you don’t read—”
“I read!” Sometimes.
“Hikes and walks, you’re back to the pace thing. Plus, the sun, the insects.”
“Plenty of places to pee though.”
“True. If the weather’s nice we could go to the water, but again the—”
“I get it,” I interrupt flatly. “I’m undatable.”
“I didn’t say that.” He eats the other half of his churro and I’m so distracted by a fleck of sugar at the corner of his mouth that I almost miss his next words. “Ax throwing.”
“Ax… what?”
“I would take you ax throwing,” he says.
I stare at him. “What the hell is ax throwing?”
“Exactly what—”
“It sounds like,” I finish. “Alright, Mr. Smart-Ass. That doesn’t seem very romantic.”
“Have you ever been?”
“Obviously not.”
“You get these little axes and these round blocks of wood, like archery or a dartboard. It has a bullseye and everything. And then you go to your lane, and you just throw.” He mimes the movement. “You ever feel like screaming sometimes?” he asks. “Ever have a bad day where everything is going wrong, and you just want to stand up and yell?”
“Only three to four times a week.”
“Hot yoga doesn’t cure everything,” he says evenly. “So, I would take you ax throwing. After which, we’ll both have built up an appetite, so I’d take you to dinner. Somewhere quiet so we could talk. Of your choosing, of course. And that would be our date.” He downs the last of his hot chocolate and tosses the empty cup into a nearby trash can as though he didn’t just describe what might be the weirdest and possibly greatest day ever.
“What would you do for me?” he asks.
“On a date?” I frown. “I have no clue.”
“Well, that doesn’t seem fair.”
“I’m terrible at date ideas.”
“Then make an effort.”
I groan inwardly. I wasn’t lying. With my line of work, dating follows a predictive pattern. An alcoholic beverage after work, usually late, and then maybe a formal dinner. I haven’t done anything anyone would consider “fun” since college.
“Well, since youlovepicnics,” I begin, and he laughs. “Dinner,” I say, more seriously. “But not out. I would invite you over to my apartment and I’d cook.”
“I didn’t know you could cook.”
“I can make pasta, garlic bread, and cheesy garlic bread.”
“Ah, the three food groups.”
“I wouldn’t attempt dessert though. I’d buy that, but I’d plate it nicely and most likely lie and say I made it from scratch so you’d be impressed with me.”
“And I would pretend to believe you because I’m nice.”
He would. I know he would. And I would get two desserts in case he didn’t like one. But I know what Andrew likes. Anything with melting chocolate in the middle. I would wear something casual that I was comfortable in because, between cooking and plating, I wouldn’t have time to dress up. Afterward, we’d go over to the couch and we’d watch one of his dumb comedies or maybe he’d let me pick the movie and he’d suffer through it silently. And then the credits would roll and it would be dark outside and I’d kiss him because it would be a date and it’s perfectly normal to kiss someone on a date and even more normal to feel your heart race when you do.
