He picks the fork back up and eats slow and quiet, cutting the pieces small. He gets through his second glass of wine before the plate is clear, and somewhere into the third he starts talking. About a class he's taking this fall. A professor he liked from last year. A novel he wants me to read. Plans he hasn't said out loud before—wanting to see the ocean from theothercoast, wanting to learn to drive a stick shift, wanting to see a Broadway show, even one of the bad ones, just to say he had. His hands have started moving when he talks, which they don't do when he's sober. His face is a little flushed. He's leaning forward over his plate.
"I'm going to take you to all of those."
He blinks.
"Really?"
"Every one. I want a list. Written down."
"You can't just—"
"I can."
"Atlas, I was just talking."
"I was listening."
He looks at me. He takes a long slow sip of wine—third glass—and his eyes don't leave my face.
"...okay. You’re impossible."
I've stopped pretending I'm not watching him.
He notices.
He doesn't blush. He doesn't flinch. He sets the glass down with deliberate slowness, and then his foot—his foot touches the inside of my ankle under the table.
I look at him.
He doesn't look away.
"Sweetheart."
"Mm."
"Is that on purpose?"
"...maybe."
"Are you flirting with me?"
"...is it working?"
Jesus fucking Christ. I set my glass down.
"Look at me."
His eyes come up. They've gone dark. "Yes, sir." He says it like he knowsexactlywhat he’s doing. And it’s fucking working.
The room temperature drops six degrees.
"Order the dessert, Max."
"Yes, sir."
"Eat it slow."
"Yes, sir."
