Before we know it, we’ve both broadened our quiche experience and are commenting on how we need to come back another time for another quiche adventure.
“To trying new things!” Matthew holds up his coffee cup between bites and toasts our meal together.
“To quiche adventures.” I smile, clinking our cardboard vessels. A warm layer folds through my core.
We laugh so much I hardly notice that the tables around us are clearing out. There must be a lull between the morning crowd and the lunch rush because the courtyard around us now has only a smattering of tables filled. Servers are wiping down the ones around us.
“I love fountains,” he says, exhaling and staring into the water below.
“It’s so peaceful, like it soothes your soul.” My gaze turns to his, but he doesn’t look away from the water. “Let’s make a wish,” I say.
His head snaps to me. “A wish?”
“Yeah.” I start digging through my pocket for change. “You know, like throw a coin in the fountain and make a wish.” I fumble several coins in my hand.
“Well, Liam,” he breathes at me, “What is it that you wish for?” He’s got a suspicious look on his face like he’s unraveling a mystery.
“My real wish? I can’t tell you that or it won’t come true, but I can tell you my second-place wish.” I hold out two coins for him to take and drop them in his open palm. We both start rolling them around our fingertips instinctively.
“Of course. Just your second-place wish.”
I find myself staring into the green of his eyes, swimming in the light from the fountain. “I wish that I could keep some moments in my pocket, to be able to pull them out later. You know, the really good ones.” I smile so big my teeth are drying out, my hand flipping the coin over and over.
He smiles back, but doesn’t speak. Then his smile grows bigger with an exhale as he says, “I wish for a corn dog. With mustard.” We both start laughing so hard it’s embarrassing.
“A corn dog?”
“That’s my second-place wish. My first-place wish I can’t tell you or it won’t come true.” He smiles at me coyly, looking overhis nose like the absence of details in his statement might mean something I should sense. He holds a half-wink for a beat and then we are both laughing. My ears are turning red, I think.
“Well now I’ve changed my mind, I’m also wishing for a corn dog,” I say through the laughter.
Matthew leans forward, gripping the arm of my chair so hard it shakes, “I don’t even like corn dogs.” He blurts a guffaw, my chair is shaking, “I just love mustard and you can’t just eat mustard by itself. You need to have something to go with it.”
“Hence the corn dog.” We’re laughing so hard it feels natural that I’ve placed my hand over his on the arm of my chair. I feel his fingers grip the armrest tighter, the cords of his muscle in my palm.
“Let’s do this,” I’m saying as we both release our hands from my chair, directing our attention to the coins in our fingers.
Matthew looks at his closely, “This nickel is a 1989 nickel. Very lucky number.” Then, looking at me and back to the fountain, he closes his eyes, breathes a deep breath like he’s making an actual first-place wish, and chucks the nickel into the water. The sploosh of coin on water soothes the soul a little bit, and we both seem to notice.
I mimic his movements, searching the dime in my hand for the mint year. I feel his stare as I close my eyes, take a deep breath and pretend to make a first-place wish, but mostly I can’t stop thinking about mustard. “This dime was made in 1937. Lucky 37,” I say chucking my coin into the water.
This time I can’t hear the sploosh over Matthew’s gasping. “1937?” He’s standing, chair sliding back, moving toward the rail. “That’s a 1937 dime?” He’s turning to me, horror stretched across his face. “Did you get a good look at it? Was it a mercury dime?” He’s gasping for air, leaning strongly over the rail looking at where the coin hit the water, the ripples still marking the center.
“It said 1937. That’s all I saw.” I’m now standing too, following Matthew to the edge.
“That could be a mercury dime.” He’s almost distraught and keeps turning from me to the spiraling ripples in the water.
Suddenly, he’s pulling off his shoes, chucking them haphazardly under our table, and his socks soon follow. He freezes suddenly as a realization hits him, then he turns to me, “I’m going to get it. Do you mind?”
I’m wordless, breathing hard, and my arms are gesturing randomly. “Um, sure. From the water?”
“Yeah. I have to know,” he turns to the water and then lurches back toward me, “but I don’t want to ruin your wish. Are you okay with that?”
I can hardly speak. “Sure. Um. No worries. You’re going in the fountain?”
Without a word, his belt is undone and his pants are sliding down his legs. He’s climbing over the railing in his black boxer briefs and button down shirt and leaps into the water below, which comes up to his knees, but splashes onto the clothing he is wearing.
I become a mouth breather, watching him wade through the fountain, avoiding the pillars of bubbling water, heading toward the spot that holds my dime. He bends over, digging through the water which nearly reaches his shoulder, soaking the short sleeve of his shirt.
