“I don’t care. We’ll know what they are to us.”
Unrest rampant in her gaze, she searches me. “You’re…disconcerting.” Pulling away, she plucks one of the birds from the shelf and selects a table as far from everyone else as she can possibly get.
Elated, I follow her and wait as she wipes down the space before tentatively setting the bird in front of a plastic chair. As though it’s a great ordeal, she beholds the paint selection station on the other side of the room.
“You can do it,” I say.
“Don’t patronize me,” she mutters, gliding across the shop. I follow my angel and fill my palette with dark shades that contrast her pale ones. The softest of pinks, the barest oforanges, the purest of whites. Her pastels battle my deep ebony, dark violet, and navy blue.
Starkly opposite, we begin, dipping dainty brushes and coloring our palm-size birds.
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask.
Azalea doesn’t look up. “What kind of a question is that?”
“A genuine one.”
“You first.”
“Black.”
“Crazy.” Surgically, she finishes her first coat of white, refraining from so much as grazing the damp portion of her dove with her gloves. “I couldn’t have guessed.”
“You’re leading me to assume your favorite color is white, but I’m not convinced.”
“I’m not leading you anywhere. You’re the one who dragged me here. Against my will. And under duress.” She tenses when someone on the other side of the shop coughs.
I watch her breath hold as she begins to count the seconds she must withhold air from her lungs. I say, “I hope you’ll choke me again after this date.”
Breaking her count, she sucks in a breath. “What?”
“I said, it’s far cleaner here than the theme park you picked.”
“You did not.”
“Didn’t I?” I watch her, skeptical, and proceed, merrily dropping my attention back to my bird. “You’ll have to forgive me if I’ve picked a poor excursion. I suppose I assumed you were trying to expand your horizons. I mean, truly, what other possible reason could you have for wanting to bring me to a theme park?”
Her lips part. “Right…well…it was…” She buffers. “…an impulse.” Her lips pinch as she lies, “I’ve always wanted to go there.”
All adoration, I murmur, “And you trusted me to make it safe for you.”
She goes still.
“Thank you.”
Achingly slow, she lifts her attention to me.
“I’m honored,” I say, sincerity incarnate. Even though I know this is malarkey. And she knows it’s malarkey. And we both know not a single cell in her has ever aspired to go to a theme park nor has even half of one ever trusted me. Still. I’m at least ensnared in the illusion. Focusing on my bird, I proceed in the poppycock. “I’ve always thought your coldness toward me hid deeper feelings. I’m grateful to learn that I was right. I’m glad you know I’ll take care of you, no matter where we are.”
Moments of calculation meld with rampant disgust and slip into the space between us. Voice tight, she finally concurs, “Yes…” Agony undertones her syllables. “Exactly…that…what you said. I guess. It’s more than revenge that I feel…” Harsh, she forces herself through the statement. “…when I’m with you.”
Oh, if only.
If only I were a better person.
If only my personality were more palatable.
If only I didn’t crave chaos and power and pain and mental gymnastics.
