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The same drink someone else put thought into.
Consideration.
Care.
Fuck, when was the last time a man made any sort of effort like that for me on a personal level?
Daniel usually struggled with just remembering to grab two fucking forks when setting the dinner table.
And even now that we’re just back to being friends, he still forgets to get an extra pastry versus just splitting the one he got in half.
“Alright,” Lars says once his chuckling has died down, “why don’t you bring me a shrimp cocktail?”
Tate nods his comprehension, shoots me a wink, dismisses himself without another word, yet again taking my attention with him.
This time when my date talks, I don’t bother reangling my focus. I simply let myself guiltlessly indulge in the real appetizer I wish I could turn into a meal. With every stride he takes, his body doesn’t just cross the territory he’s moving through, it floats. It’s as if he’s so carefree that even gravity cannot weigh him down.
Part of me wonders what that’s like.
To be so…light.
See, I have a tough job.
It keeps you directly more aware of the value of life, the significance of time and moments and loved ones, but it doesn’t – in any fucking way – make you walk on air. It typically doesn’t leave you feeling hopeful or playful or anything other than fearful.
Maybe that’s why I like being around Tate.
I like his energy.
I like being so close to something so…full of life.
Full of love waiting to be had.
He arrives at his next table to greet them yet steals another glimpse of me before he does.
The blush he’s given is welcomed by another wink, and the instant he delivers his attention to his new guests, I divert mine to my date who has been talking the entire time down at his menu as opposed to me.
His outward rambling regarding whether he should have salmon or steak for dinner is not so slyly interrupted by me. “Do you like sports?”
Lars lifts his head to answer. “What?”
“It wasn’t on your sheet.” Or if it was, I don’t remember reading it. “Do you like sports?”
“Golf.”
Oh, fuck me, my least favorite?!
Daniel at least enjoyed baseball, which I don’t love but could tolerate.
“Any others?”
“No.” He shakes his head on a shoulder shrug. “Not really.”
When there’s no effort to ask me about what I enjoy, I release a loud inward sigh of acceptance.
This date is going to suck.
And it’s not a cheap suck.
