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“How can you not be a romantic when movies like this exist?” he asks, his hands gesturing in front of him.
I shrug, wanting to confess that I’m not a romantic at all. Just hiding in the dark, horny and afraid of what some college-aged asshole might do to my heart.
“Are you very romantic?” I ask, wondering if he believes in red roses and love letters.
“I haven’t been in quite a long time,” he tells me, facing the screen again. He’s sitting easily, his elbows resting on the armrests, so close I can smell the scent of his soap. Perhaps his shampoo?
A clean, manly scent that probably has some sort of nonsensical name. Midnight Dream. No, Forest Musk.
“Must be lonely,” I say from personal experience, pulling myself from my thoughts.
He shakes his head, still staring at the screen.
“You don’t need romance for sex,” he clarifies, and my focus is jerked back to the screen as I try to digest his response.
The words are a straight shot to my libido and the desire to find out what his brand of sex is like is immediate. Does he take his time? Is his tongue as clever with foreplay as it is with pronunciation?
Before I can sink so far into my seat that I disappear into the floor, the credits roll, and the theater lights come on.
“Well,” he starts, standing. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
Before I can answer, he holds his hand out to help me up.
Without a second thought, I take it.
His palm is soft, his hand warm as it closes around mine. Once I’m standing, I pull my fingers from his grip, wiping my hand against my skirt. He watches me with a small smile, and I realize I never answered his question.
“I did. Thank you,” I tell him, and he gives me a small nod before starting to head out.
Do I follow him?
Fuck it. I shrug and walk toward the exit, figuring we’ll either say goodnight or continue to have a good night with one another. Either way, I won’t overthink it.
He holds the door open for me and we walk wordlessly out of the theater and then out of the building. The night is warm and when I turn to him, he’s staring at my chest.
Um…
“I like your shirt,” he tells me, and I want to suggest that he only noticed it because he was looking at my breasts. But that line feels better uncrossed.
“Thank you,” I say as I glance down at the white T-shirt that I’d tucked into my skirt. Across the chest in the small print, it readsDump Him.
My clothes are thrifted, and I’ve had these shoes since my junior year of high school.
But I guess that’s the thing about this city: no one gives a shit.
Which is how I ended up here with this strange once-Italian man.
“What made you decide to do this to yourself?” he asks, reaching out to touch a short lock of bright red hair. It slips between his fingers as I pull back from him, uncomfortable with the feeling of having his complete focus.
I’ve never been self-conscious about my decision to chop my hair off and color it a shade that rivaled The Little Mermaid’s. At least, not until someone asked me why I did it.
It’s a loaded answer that I can’t quite give to a stranger.
“I wanted change,” I offer, a small portion of a very large truth.
“It makes me want to look at you.”
He says the words like they’re a simple truth of his own and I envy his ability to be so open. No games. No need to hide. His hand is still up, the whisper of his touch on my hair making me wonder if he’s going to reach out for me again. Instead, he rests his hand on his chest before letting it drop to his side.
