Sora Reid kissed me.
On the lips.
Sora freakin’ Reidkissedme.
I think I might have stood there on her door mat for a good five minutes, trying to process what happened. Wondering if I just imagined it happened at all.
My little inner five-year-old does an awkward celebratory somersault. My inner Neanderthal gives that adorable, pudgy kindergartener a high five.
Yes.
So, I was right. We do have a connection. Something. Still, I try not to read anything into it. I shouldn’t get my hopes up. She’s still doing that Solo February thing. Right? Isn’t she?
Then again, she did smash her face against mine. How can Inotread something into it?
“Maybe it was just a pity kiss,” says Ian, on his lunch break later that week. It’s the day before Valentine’s Day and I’m trying to convince Ian to spend tomorrow doing something romantic with his wife. But he seems too intent on trying to distract me.
“Thanks, man. That does not help me.” We’re eating sandwiches at the place across the street from the hospital. We’re sitting at a four-top near the front windows.
“I’m just saying that you basically got her out of at least a grand’s worth of ER expenses. Could’ve just been a pity kiss.”
“Didn’t feel like a pity kiss,” I grumble. Felt more like arealkiss. I know the difference. Besides, I’ve been wondering what that woman’s lips tasted like ever since I first considered that girls mightnotbe gross and covered in cooties. Now I know: vanilla. The woman tastes like a vanilla crème brûlée. Don’t know if it was her lip gloss or just her, but she tastes like perfection.
“I don’t know, man.” Ian shakes his head. He takes another big bite of his sandwich, a bit of turkey falling onto the paper wrapping he’s spread across the bright yellow plastic table. “Why waste your time with a head case? I mean, she’s pretty. I mean,reallypretty, but just because you knew her way back when doesn’t mean youknowher, know her. She’s doing this ‘solo’ thing or whatever? And it sounds a little crazy. Or bitter. Or both.”
“I don’t think she wants to hate men. I just think she’s had bad luck.” And I know a thing or two about bad luck. I nibble on a chip.
“No. It’s not bad luck. She’s hot. And crazy. Which, given the fact you spent so much time with Mal, I’d say is your type.”
“Hey.” I nudge my younger brother, but he just laughs. “She’s not crazy. She loves bacon, that’s all.”
“Sounds like she wants to marry bacon.” Ian raises an eyebrow, nodding down at the open screen on my phone. Maybe it was a mistake to show him some of those articles.
“Who doesn’t?” I ask, defensive.
“Don’t do that threesome,” my brother warns. “You can seriously still get trichinosis.”
I laugh and shake my head and take another bite of Italian beef.
My phone pings. A DM from Sora? I open it eagerly.
There is a photo of her signed fifth-grade yearbook.
And my deranged drawing of a bee.
I snort a laugh. It’s perfect. “She might be the perfect woman,” I say, showing Ian the picture.
“What the hell is that? A sheep with rabies?”
“It’s a bee.Beecool. Get it? That’s my drawing. From when we were kids.” I type off a quick response.
That’s not even my best work. You should see some of my Pictionary masterpieces of 1999.
“You are such a nerd.” Ian shakes his head.
A frazzled-looking nurse bursts through the door then, sending a blast of arctic air to our table. She sends us a look of apology and I realize she’s without her coat. Probably thought she could sprint the distance from the hospital entrance to the sub shop without bothering to get her coat, but the wind chill outside is negative two degrees. Good luck with that.
We chew in silence for a bit. The nurse gets a hastily made sandwich and then sprints back out into the cold again. I watch her run back to the hospital through the window.
