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We spend a few minutes wrangling with nachos. To be honest, they’re a good fit for the very unusual occasion of two people who are blatantly into each other having a meal where they have to pretend they aren’t. They’re not so messy it’s embarrassing, they require just enough cooperation that you’ve got to interact, but not so much it gets sexy.
Finally, Jonathan looks up from a plate of sour cream and tortillas. “I suppose you’ve never had a bad date in your life.”
“Jonathan, everybody’s had a bad date. I’ll admit, the skydiving vomit professional footballer combo sets the bar very high, but I’ve had my share of fuckups.”
“Like what?” He sounds so sceptical it’s almost flattering.
And, embarrassingly, I do have to think for a moment. It’s not that I’m amazing or anything. It’s just there’s usually something good even on a bad date. Well, unless you’re Jonathan apparently. “I took a bloke to seeGods of Egypt.”
“And?”
“And he didn’t like it very much. Also he didn’t like that I”—I’m not really sure how to phrase this—“didn’t really care it was a terrible film? He was all,the dialogue was awful,the plot made no sense, and Ancient Egypt was nothing like that. And I was like,yeah, but you got see him fromGame of Throneswith his shirt off, what more do you want?”
“Honestly,” Jonathan tells me, “I can see why he found that annoying.”
“No, you don’t. If you didn’t like a movie, you’d just say,well, that wasn’t very goodand if I saidI dunno, you got to see him fromGame of Throneswith his shirt off, you’d sayfair enough. You wouldn’t take it as a personal insult and spend the rest of the evening trying to convince me I was wrong while we were supposed to be getting chips.”
“Yes, well”—Jonathan shoots me one of his intense looks that might be playful—“I’ve learned that trying to convince you that you’re wrong is entirely futile.”
I think back to the business at the store today. “No more than trying to convince you.”
“Why? What are you trying to convince me of this time?”
Oh God. I can’t really say,don’t fire Brian. Partly because I’m not supposed to know he’s firing Brian but mainly because he’s now joined me on Flirt Street and—even though I shouldn’t—I don’t entirely want to show him the way back. I do, however, find another way to bottle it. “That vanilla’s a waste of a milkshake.”
Unfortunately, Flirt Street is much longer and twistier than I remember it being. Jonathan slides his drink towards me. “Try it.”
I should probably tell him no. But not being willing to take a sip of milkshake seems like it’d be heading off Flirt Street onto Dick Move Boulevard. So I lean forward and put my lips on the straw, trying to look as un-fellatio-ey as possible—which is easy in some ways because straws are a hell of a lot thinner than cocks, but also there’s just something inherently suggestive about sucking on stuff in front of someone you fancy. “Okay,” I say. “It’s good. But it still just tastes like a milkshake.”
Jonathan lowers his brow, clearly feeling protective of the vanilla milkshake experience. “What were you expecting it to taste of? Liquid gold and angels’ tears?”
“The way you were going on, aye.”
“Well, forgive me if I like my milkshake to taste like milkshake and not like…” He makes a dismissive gesture with a nacho. “Generic red.”
“But red’s the best flavour. Everyone knows red’s the best flavour.”
“No,” Jonathan insists. “That’s just propaganda put about by Big Red.”
“Are you seriously telling me that you don’t think red M&Ms are the best M&Ms?”
“Peanut M&Ms are the best M&Ms.”
“Okay, but within a bag of peanut M&Ms.”
“Then they all taste the same because whether they’ve got a peanut is the salient factor about M&Ms, not the colour.”
“You,” I say, laughing, “have no soul.”
Now Jonathan is looking at me again, with this half-confused, half-pained expression.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just…it always surprises me when you laugh.”
Which as comments go leaves me substantially more than half-confused. “Why? I’m a happy person. Also most people don’t take three weeks and a chicken fisting to crack a smile.”
The memory of doing unspeakable things to a deceased bird sends a flicker of inappropriate amusement across Jonathan’s face, but then he goes all messy-sad again. “I meant more that I’m surprised to see you laugh when you’re with me.”
