He held out the bag. “Here.”
Ceci frowned, looking confused.
“Take it,” he said, shoving it at her so that she was forced to. Otherwise, it would have dropped to the ground.
“Why?”
Now he was the one confused. “It’s the scarf.”
“I know that. But why are you—what are you—are you—giving—”
He cut her off. He wanted to get the moment over as quickly as possible. It felt awkward to begin with, and she was only making it more awkward. “Yes. I am giving it to you. It suits you.”
“I don’t wear scarves.”
She held the bag up, offering it back to him, but he ignored the gesture.
“Well, then give it to your friend Pixel.”
“But this wouldn’t look good on her. Not her colors.”
“I agree. It would look good on you. They’re your colors.”
“Well, thank you. You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“I know that. But this—uh—this date is really quite inexpensive. It feels like I should do something to make it more, more—”
“Special?”
Special? No, not special.
“So,” she said, “it’s important how much you spend when you take someone on a date?”
“No. But this, what we’re doing here is because of the auction. And that was a lot of money, so it just seems right that you should get a date—not a date, an experience—a whatever that’s somewhat in keeping with that sum. I don’t know. Can we stop talking about this?”
“Fine, but if you’re going to buy me something, how about some food? I’m starving.”
“Okay, sure.” He surveyed the various food vendors, cringing at the options—deep-fried pickles dipped in dark chocolate, chocolate cake dipped in caramel, corn dogs dipped in melted cheddar cheese. Surely, there must be some real food around here. Maybe a café, restaurant, or coffee shop?
He was about to suggest they look for such a place but became transfixed by the expression on her face. Her eyes shot around the booths and flashed every time she landed on an option.
“Hmmm let’s see, maybe some Comet Corn or deep-fried Twinkies! Or no, Elvis on a stick!”
“Elvis on a stick?”
“It’s a deep-fried banana-battered peanut butter cup wrapped in bacon and dipped in chocolate. On a stick.”
“What?” he exclaimed, horrified.
Surely there could not be such a thing. Why would there be such a thing?
“That’s it!” she cried, pointing her finger at a booth.
“No. Absolutely not. I refuse to pay for a deep-fried banana-battered peanut butter cup wrapped in bacon and dipped in chocolate. On a stick.”
She shook her head. “No, forget that.”
Clarke sighed. “Okay, good, what would you—?”
