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“That’s good,” he said, “since I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“Want to go tonight? Maybe we can grab some dinner while we’re out.”
“Isn’t it kind of late?”
I grinned at him and pointed out, “It’s barely eight p.m.”
“Sure, we could do that, even though it’s awfully cozy here in bed.” He reached over and tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. Then he apparently got distracted, because he lightly ran my earlobe between his thumb and index finger as he asked, “Are these new?” One earlobe was pierced twice, and I hadn’t worn earrings in a while. But today, I’d put on two tiny, silver hoops.
I nodded and whispered, “Thank you,” before leaning in and kissing him.
“What are you thanking me for?”
“For noticing.” That actually meant the world to me, so much more than he probably realized. I kissed him again before asking, “So, was that a no to going out? If so, that’s fine. We can go to the sex shop another time.”
Dylan pushed back the covers and said, “No, let’s go. I don’t want my young lover to think I’m a boring old homebody, even though that’s exactly what I am.” He smiled at me, then kissed my bare shoulder as he slid past me.
18
Dylan
About twenty minutes later, I slid into a corner booth with Lark at my favorite neighborhood restaurant. I was glad I’d agreed to drag my ass out of bed. It was worth it just to get to watch him experience this.
There was such an amazing sense of wonder about him. Lark’s big, brown eyes were wide as he took in absolutely everything, from the candle and white daisies on the table to the mural of the Italian countryside on the wall across the small dining room. It was nothing fancy, just a cute mom and pop Italian restaurant, but you’d have thought it was the most special place in the world based on his reaction.
The waiter handed us thick menus bound in leather folders, then asked what we’d like to drink. “There are some house specialties on the back cover,” I told Lark, and he flipped his menu over and scanned the list.
“There are too many choices. I don’t know what to get.”
I still wasn’t used to this part of him, the shy, uncertain part that brought out the protector in me. He could be so bold and seemingly fearless when he was performing for an audience. It was easy to forget he could also be timid and incredibly vulnerable when he was out of his element.
I asked, “Would you like me to order for you?”
He was still completely wide-eyed as he met my gaze and nodded. I requested a virgin strawberry daiquiri for him and a glass of red wine for myself, and he whispered, “Thank you.” Then he pulled up his soft, red sweater, which kept slipping off his shoulder.
He was clearly feeling self-conscious. I could see it not just in the way he kept covering up, but in the way he kept trying to make himself smaller. He sat hunched over with his arms wrapped around himself, as if to try to become less noticeable.
To make him feel better, I slid closer to him and draped my arm along the back of the booth. When he snuggled against me, I moved my arm to his shoulders and held him as he put down his menu and read mine with me.
I held the menu while he flipped the pages, and after a while he said, “This menu’s huge. I don’t know how I’ll ever decide.”
“I can help you pick. I’ve been here a few times and know the menu pretty well. Do you like pasta?”
“I love it.”
I directed him to the stuffed manicotti and said, “That’s particularly good.”
He muttered, “It’s kind of expensive.”
“This is my treat, Lark. Please don’t give the prices a second thought.” I actually didn’t think it was very expensive at all, certainly not by San Francisco standards, but maybe he didn’t go out very often.
I felt a pang of guilt at that idea. Lark was an absolute angel who deserved the world on a silver platter, and I resolved then and there to start stepping up and taking him more places. Actually, it would also do me good to leave the apartment sometimes, for more than just some quick errands.
When the waiter came back with our drinks, Lark took a sip of the daiquiri and told me, “It’s yummy.” Then I ordered the manicotti for both of us and asked Lark if he wanted the soup or salad, which came with it. “Soup,” he said. “I don’t like eating leaves. It’s weird.” If the waiter found that odd, he did a great job not showing it.
As tiny as he was, Lark surprised me by polishing off a cup of minestrone, the entire dish of manicotti, two strawberry daiquiris, and three pieces of garlic bread. He looked so sad when the waiter asked if we wanted dessert, and he had to admit he was too full. “We’ll get it to go and have it later,” I told him, and his face lit up.
When the bill came, I slipped my card into the leather sleeve and handed it right back to the waiter without looking at it. I didn’t want Lark to see the total, just in case some misguided part of him felt bad about the money I’d spent. While we waited for the waiter to return, Lark snuggled close to me and whispered, “Thank you. That was an absolutely incredible meal.”
