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Once I break the kiss, I keep her near for another few seconds, content to be with her in silence. From this view, her eyes seem different. Darker and more mysterious, with a line of silver sparkles at the base of her lashes.
“Did you put on extra eye makeup?”
“Yeah. This is my nighttime look. Don’t like it?”
“I love it.”
I love you.
“Good. Because if you didn’t, I would’ve told you that’s too damn bad and that if you don’t like eye makeup, then don’t wear any.”
We laugh together, and then I give her a quick peck. It’s getting harder to keep my lips off her. I nearly kissed her in a meeting the other day.
“To dinner,” I announce.
On the way to the restaurant, we take turns picking songs. She’s into girl bands, which isn’t surprising since she’s a feminist at heart. It’s my third selection when I catch her singing along to “I Who Have Nothing.”
“Excuse me, ma’am. Are you singing along with Sir Tom Jones?”
She mashes her lips together and crosses her arms like a petulant child, then vigorously shakes her head.
I indulge her denial. “My mistake. I must have misheard.”
“Yep. Guess you did.”
I sing along with the next chorus, hoping to get her to join. And it works.
By the time the big finish comes, we’re both crooning at the top of our lungs.
Ironically, those words are the very same ones that have been threatening to break free.
I love you.
“That’s a great song,” she reluctantly admits.
“About time you recognize the power of the man, the myth, the legend.”
“For your information, he’s not the first to record it in English. Ben E. King did. It was also covered by Joe Cocker, Luther Vandross, Gladys Knight, and a dozen others.” She points her finger at me, and I snap my teeth at it playfully. Chuckling, she continues, “And the best cover— thebest— was by a woman.”
“Gladys?”
“While I can’t deny the magic of Gladys, I was referring to Candice Glover.”
The name rings precisely zero bells. “Who’s that?”
She cringes and hides behind her palms. “Season twelve winner ofAmerican Idol. And no, I’m not proud of knowing that.”
“Don’t worry. I’m an Army Ranger who bakes pies and dances in the kitchen with my mom. I listen to music from forty years before I was born. You knowingAmerican Idolcontestants isn’t anything to be ashamed of, relatively speaking.”
Her answering laugh is melodic. I fucking love her laugh. “Speaking of dancing…”
“Yes?”
“How did you learn to dance so well?”
She’s encouraged me to dance with Ma a few more times this week, often observing from the sidelines and wearing a dopey grin.
“Legend has it that my mother convinced my father to take ballroom dancing lessons to prepare for their wedding dance. Allegedly, he had two left feet. But they ended up loving it. Dancing became their typical date night.”
