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He finally gives me a little smile, a mischievous one that’s tinted blue from the projected light. “I did recognize you, little one. But since you never brought up your nighttime activities during any of our conversations, I didn’t want to somehow embarrass you or make you in any way uncomfortable. I didn’t want to risk that you wouldn’t still be yourself, when yourself has been so delightful to get to know.”
I have such a mix of emotions from my discovery and from what he just said that my mind kind of short-circuits, and I just stare at him blankly, my lips still parted. I don’t know which ingredient of the mixture should be the main focus of this dish.
Jubilation? Oh my God! Gym Daddy is Dumpster Daddy! My gym crush is also the man who fixed my hand and made the butterflies set flight inside my lady garden!
Confusion? What are the freaking odds?
Excitement? Holy shit, I can’t wait to tell Vi!
Hurt? He couldn’t have told me he knew who I was? The first thing I said to the man was that I recognized him from the gym. It would’ve been so easy for his response to be “Hey! I know you too!”
Understanding? He’s totally right though. I would’ve definitely acted different, been less open in our conversations, if I first went into them with the knowledge he already knew just how weird I am. It was comforting to think I was revealing that fact only little by little, showing him my crazy parts one at a time instead of just punching him in the face with all of them at once.
And of course, we can’t leave out—turned on AF! As if I didn’t want to fuck Gym Daddy’s brains out to begin with, let’s add on the fact that everything that aroused me about him is now combined with everything that I felt that night I met Dumpster Daddy. And I am by no means a mathematician, but somehow the lust I feel for him now, is more than the sum of those two separate men. Or whatever that Aristotle guy said.
“That’s actually a common misquote, but I’m very impressed with the way your mind works, as always, little one. And Aristotle was a philosopher who sometimes used mathematics to work out theorems about ratios and infinite magnitudes, but he wasn’t actually a mathematician. But I’m curious, princess,” he says.
I blink, because that’s all I can do. I don’t want to think about what I said out loud, when my thoughts went from being internal to external without me meaning for them to. I do that often, actually voicing my thoughts as they come to my mind. I was told it’s another lovely feature of ADHD, categorized under the H—hyperactivity—since it’s a mostly unconscious way we expend some of our energy, by talking to ourselves out loud.
“What was it that gave me away? How did you recognize it was me?” His expression seems amused, but I can feel the leery, cautious vibe coming off him in waves.
“The five hoops, Sir. Three in one ear, and two in the other, all perfectly symmetrical. They weren’t visible in your profile picture, and they’re so small I never noticed them at the gym before. And since I was too scared to look at you up close this morning, now is the first time I spotted them in your ears.” I tilt my head, speaking to those little silver rings in his lobes, finding it much easier to use my voice when I’m not looking him in the eye.
Even though they’re still covered, I can feel them boring into me, and the lenses gleam sporadically as the ocean scene projected on the screens around us reflect the sun as realistically as if we’re just beneath the surface of the real Atlantic Ocean two hours away. I’m too… the only word I can think of to describe it is intimidated.
“The night you helped me, they were one of the only things that were remotely identifiable. I remember very clearly you were wearing a backward baseball cap… I think this one, actually”—I lift my chin to indicate the dark but faded hat, spun around once again on his shaved head—"with your mask. So I could see your ears but nothing else besides a little bit of your beard. I couldn’t even tell the real color of your eyes because of the annoyingly but also conveniently dim streetlights.” The last part sounds gripey even to my own ears.
“Would you like to, princess?”
I swallow reflexively at his question, my pulse picking up rapidly enough my watch lets out a trill. It’s the perfect excuse to look back down and busy myself for a few seconds to turn its notifications to silent.
“When I ask you a question, I’ll expect an answer,” he tells me, but while the words are stern and blunt, spoken as a clear rule, there’s no harshness in his tone.
