“Um…” Eleanor blinks hard and refocuses her gaze on the nearest shimmering pool. “I guess when someone listens to something on their phone without headphones in public. What’s yours?”
“Wet socks.” I shudder at the thought, and don’t miss the twitch at the corner of Eleanor’s mouth.
“How is that a pet peeve?”
“Oh my god, have you never been walking through your kitchen and stepped in a puddle you didn’t see? It is the worst sensation in the world.”
“Why are there puddles all over your kitchen floor?”
“There aren’t usually. But, you know, it happens.”
“… How, though?”
“I don’t know. Spills from cooking. Or watering plants.”
I do not actually own any houseplants. My mom gave me a succulent when I first moved into my apartment, but it died, like, immediately, and I haven’t replaced it.
Eleanor’s smirk stretches wider, and I get the feeling she’s picturing me getting my socks wet and having a meltdown over it.
“How about your favorite album?” I ask.
“Like, at the moment? Or of all time?”
“Both.”
She blows out a breath. “I’ve been listening to a lot of Teddy Swims and Arctic Monkeys lately. But of all time… probablyNevermind.”
I huff a small laugh.
“What?” she asks. “Is that too trite?”
“No, not at all. That’s actually my favorite album too.”
She beams. “Really?”
“Yeah. Nirvana was my favorite band as a teenager. I come back to that album all the time. My mom actually saw them live once.”
Eleanor’s eyes go wide. “No shit?”
“Unfortunately, she didn’t get any merch to pass down to me,” I say with a nod to her Bowie shirt. “But yeah. She was really into the live music scene before my dad kind of… soured her on it all.” I snort. “I think he was always weirdly jealous of some of the acts she saw before they got together. Like he wanted to be the sole music aficionado in the relationship.”
“Well. She sounds pretty cool in her own right.”
I nod. “She’s the best.”
Eleanor bites her lip and looks down at her pretzels. She stuffs one in her mouth and avoids my gaze while she chews. Once she’s swallowed, she keeps her gaze locked on her fingers, still picking at the bag of pretzels as she prompts: “What song would we have had our first dance to?”
“Um…” I think about Eleanor’s comment at the chapel this morning, about missing out on an Elvis impersonator. “?‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’?”
“That’s a good one.” Her smile softens, and she dips her chin as if to hide it. “Your turn.”
“What’s your dream job?”
Eleanor gives me a funny look. “A&R manager.”
“Oh. You don’t want to become an executive down the road?”
She shrugs. “Not particularly. I mean, I wouldn’t hate getting promoted to director one day, but I definitely want to stay in artists and repertoire.”
