Mr & Mister Danvers: Initiation - 7. EPISODE 6: NEURODIVERGENT

EPISODE 6: NEURODIVERGENT

---

The ride was quiet, as I had given him directions to my house.

Glancing surreptitiously at him whenever an opportunity came may have turned out to be a fun game we played.

Burbling chuckles were repressed fondly by glancing to the side, by huffing and sighing of furtive resolutions, tickled by his salacious glares that never flinched away from his vested interest; we were dancing, and our eyes were doing the salsa.

Energetic prancing left and right at 120 beats per minute, our orbs fused in a jaunty bounce as he glanced to his left, and I dodged staring at the window, and I shimmied a turn of my head as he met my eye swiveling to my left.

If two strangers interlocking gazes for ten minutes weren’t considered flirting, then we weren’t flirting—we were eye-fucking.

A good distance from my house, a commentary was made on the state of the abodes. "The apartments on this street seem rather small," he said, which irked the plebeian in me that this prick might be a snob.

"My apologies, Lord Nathan, that we don’t live in mansions."

"I’m just saying the apartments seem quaint and comfortable."

"Nice save," I said, pointing at where to park in front of our house. "You’d be surprised to know that my impecunious family and I are staying at a shithole. I advise you to stay here. Since dropping me at the hospital would be our last meeting, it’s better for you to, er, not see the horrors of where I live. So stay in the car alright. I’ll be quick."

The moment I hopped out of the car, the burgeoning clarity of the white apartments lining our street was lit up by the sunlight ruffling our house coloured by poverty—the colour of cement.

No one in their right mind would show their living conditions if they resembled the essence of poor.

"Don’t go down," I repeated.

"Sure."

I went to the boot to grab the groceries, and when I opened the door to our one-bedroom flat, Nathan was literally standing behind me with the takeaway bag.

"What the—"

"Hello there little man," said Nathan, gazing down at my son, who looked at him curiously.

Brady peered up at the giant. "Do you mind me asking, but who are you?”

"Such a polite kid."

"Daddy said to be weary of strangers. But you don’t seem to be a stranger. Are you an ang-quain-tance or a friend?"

Nathan smiled as he knelt on the floor. "I’m your dad’s friend. Would you like to tell me your name?"

"I am Brady," said the little tyke, showing all ten of his fingers. "I am ten. How about you? How old are you?"

“I’m 36. I’m not that old.” Nathan stood up and looked at me. "He’s pretty short for a ten-year-old, but he's a charming little guy."

I grabbed his arm and pulled him aside. "I told you to stay inside the car."

"And I didn’t listen." He began opening the takeaway box. The smell clouded the room. "Is the waffle yours, little man?"

Brady smiled and adjusted his glasses. "Do I get the waffle daddy?"

"Yes, you do. It’s Miss Paulla’s treat for you."

"Who is Ms. Paulla?"

"She’s a very generous friend who owns the place where this food came from," I said, plating up the duck and waffle on the small coffee table in front of the couch along with his cupcake.

His eyes lit up. "Wow! The cupcake is red! How astonishing!”

I winked at him and tussled his hair.

"The lady who gave the cake said you should finish it up." I turned to my dad and said softly, "I brought burger and chips for you dad."

He grumbled, and I knew what that meant.

"What happened to your hand? And what happened to him?" asked dad, looking at Nathan’s polo shirt with flecks of blood like splattered artwork made by a child.

He said, "His metacarpal might have been severely disjointed and fractured due to the heavy impact—"

"—I smashed my hand on the door," I interrupted before he made any incriminating remark that might get me in trouble, "And he, er, was there to help me."

Nathan grabbed a seat at our small dining table and observed the room, his eyes touring the cramped, tiny space. "It’s very small, isn’t it?"

I didn’t mind the side remark adding piquancy and a dash of umami to his colourful observations, for I was busy helping my dad take a crapper.

I took down the duvet, propped dad up, placed my hands under his legs to support him, and then hoisted him up to the toilet, which was separated from the room by a bathroom divider.

I asked Nathan, who was seated right next to me, "Can you please go outside for a moment?"

"Er, yeah, sure."

He must be amazed that three people could live inside a one-bedroom flat and that above the kitchen was a mezzanine, appropriately titled an adult bunk bed, with a step-up ladder to an unpainted bedroom where you could barely stand with how short the bed-to-ceiling ratio is.

And with the toilet and bathroom shelled off by a cloth divider, you could imagine the smell around the kitchen when someone takes a crap, which exactly was happening when I brought dad to the toilet.

Dad held onto my arms while the watery chunks of his turd slid off his arse.

I’ve been so used to the smell of his shit that I barely gag or show any reaction.

Several minutes later, I asked my old man, "Done, pops?"

He nodded.

I began wiping his arse clean with several rolls of tissue paper, and I also washed his arse with soap and water—something I had learned from the Vietnamese nurse, who had told me it staves off bacteria if the area is spotlessly clean.

I dried my father’s arse with a towel and said, "Dad, hold on to the sink for a while."

He followed as instructed, and he held on to that sink for his dear life while I grabbed the adult diaper from the piles of groceries.

"You didn’t have to buy that," he mumbled as I slipped him inside the adult diaper. He gets cranky when he gets into his diapers.

"A doctor told me to get this one. How does it feel?"

"This feels different. I don’t feel anything."

"What do you mean?" I asked, somewhat worried.

"I don’t feel it scratchin’ in my groin. This feels better."

"Oh," I said, sighing in relief. "I should thank the doctor then."

I carried my father back to his couch and placed him beneath his warm duvet.

I loved how relaxed he seemed under his comfy spread.

As I was washing my hands in the kitchen sink, I leaned over my shoulder and saw him holding his burger—it was too big for him; he couldn't fit it in his mouth.

To make it simpler for him to chew his food, I cut the hamburger into four equal squares.

While Brady and he watched television, he turned to his side and extended his hand to pick up the food.

As much as he could, Brady helped his grandfather as he sat down next to him with his plate in hand.

I was putting groceries in the cupboard when Nathan was leaning in the doorway, looking at everything, observing keenly with his reticence. "Hang on,” I said to the man quietly smiling at Brady and pops, “Stay there. I forgot to spray the kitchen."

Trying to find a Glade or an aerosol inside the cabinets, he kept walking to the kitchen, sat on the chair, and advised, "I wouldn’t be a doctor if I wasn’t used to the smell of faecal matter." Brady and dad glanced up. "Sorry. I didn’t mean to..."

Dad said, amused at his candidness, "It’s a’rayt. Go ahead, talk about my shit while I’m eating." Taken aback by dad’s humour, he bobbed his head shamefully.

After sorting out the groceries, I said to Nathan, who sat on the dining chair waiting for me to finish, "I’m done. Come on doc, let’s go to the hospital and get this over with."

"But you haven’t eaten yet."

"I’ll eat in the car," I said.

I never got to eat in the car.

I was fast asleep all the way to the hospital, exhausted as I was.

From waking up at five in the morning for the interview, to fucking Ryan, to the emotional rollercoaster at the pastry shop, to helping dad take a poop, resting my eyes for a bit, even for just a little, was a luxury I never expected I’d need.

The light tapping on my shoulders woke me up when Nathan said, "We’re here," as he had already changed into something more comfortable, a light-blue polo shirt.

We were at the parking space, and I checked my watch; an hour had gone by.

"You didn’t wake me."

I yawned and rubbed the sleep in my eyes.

"You were very tired and slept soundly. I assume you’re always tired."

Did he sleep? He seemed very refreshed.

"You didn’t take a video of me sleeping, did you?"

"I will neither deny or confirm that allegation. You looked very peaceful though."

I snorted and said, "So what were you doing for an hour?"

"I read a novel on my Kindle and played sodoku."

"What novel?"

“It’s nothing.”

He looked suspicious; he doesn’t seem too good at hiding things.

“What do you mean it’s nothing? Just tell me what you were reading.”

I snatched the Kindle from his lap and we played tug of war.

“This is private,” he said, pulling the devise.

“No it’s not. Not unless what you’re reading are self-help books.” I responded by pulling harder. I was able to grasp it and keep it by my side as I scanned his book selection and was startled, no, astounded and shocked by his selection of readings. “These are all romance novels.”

I was about to burst out laughing when he said, “Please. Don't laugh. My therapist suggested that I read those.”

"Why?" I asked, as I was busy drowning through various contemporary and classic romantic literature on his devise. Book Lovers, Seven Days in June, The Time Traveller’s Wife, Things We Never Got Over, Red White & Royal Blue, Love On The Brain, The Duke & I. He even has classic literature like Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice, Wuthering Heights, and others. "Wow, mate, you're really into this shit."

He snatched his Kindle from my grasp and stuffed it into the glove compartment, scratching his throat by coughing, and said, "I have difficulty comprehending the human condition."

“What condition?”

“I was told it’s to do with the condition of the human heart, er—ju-just don’t ask. Please, I beg you. It’s already hard to explain it as it is, let alone elaborate to someone who clearly sees my situation as hilarious.”

I quipped, "I don’t find it hilarious," as he stared at me, then out the window. I had a feeling that he was someone whose brain processed information differently than most people, and I had a sneaking suspicion of his adversity—the mental struggles that clashed with the stark reality of his inability to connect with those around him. I asked, "Are you...?"

"What?"

"You know what I mean."

He hesitated and said, "Yes, I have aspergers—a mild form of it as what I’m told. I’m a neurodivergent if you’re in the current syntax of naming things," his head pivoting to the vehicles parked outside as if to distract himself.

I heard the hesitation in his voice and the shame in his eyes when he answered me, implying that everything about his uniqueness was a condition that should be kept hidden from the prying eyes of the world.

As though being different was a sign of weakness.

But it's not.

It's a blessing if you try hard enough, and a curse in those days when you just don’t give a shit.

"I hope you don’t think of me differently—I’m not broken, I’m just..."

I laid a hand on his shoulder and said, "No. You’re not. You’re not broken,” patting it several times, as I curled my lip and squeezed his shoulders. “You’re perfectly fine. I will not treat you differently, but I’ll act based on how you behave in front of me. Sounds fair?”

“Yes. That’s logically reasonable.”

“Do you want to talk about this?"

“No. I have my therapist for that.”

“So you don’t want to discuss this again?”

He tipped his head forward and said, "Yes please."

"Ok. Then we won’t." I smiled and said, "I hear that people with these challenges are very smart."

"That’s an oversimplification. I am very brilliant by the standards of my I.Q. But I am not socially inept. Socially challenged is what my siblings tell me.”

“Wow, you’re very modest. What’s your I.Q. then?”

“186. But I do have trouble understanding social cues, if that’s any indication. Don’t worry, we won’t have trouble understanding each other. I figured out how simple you are. You have nothing to worry about." I stared at him with my mouth slightly agape. "That sounded wrong. Let me rectify. What I’m saying is, I don’t care that you’re stupid."

My expression turned to a grimace as I unlocked the door.

He was puzzled, his brows inching together like I’m a brain teaser he couldn’t solve, and he relocked the door on the driver’s side and said, "Don’t leave. That came out wrong."

I shook my head.

"No. That’s about right. I’m a stupid fuck who’s too dumb to talk to someone like you. Are you always like this Nathan, like brutally frank and insensitive?"

"Sorry. I offended you Greg"

"None taken."

"I only assumed you were stupid for punching the wall. I didn't mean you were stupid on the basis of your intelligence. It's too soon to say that you are—"

"—there it is; you’re insulting me again."

"I’m sorry. What I meant is, you might be intelligent in other things, and I may be challenged in certain departments."

I looked at him, and he seemed frustrated with himself. I couldn’t help but bite my cheek and suppress a smile at how honest he was with me. "Is this your way of apologising?"

"Yes. I'll do better if you want me to."

"No. That's perfect."

Quickly, he hopped out of the car and pointed at the emergency room without a hint that he was leaving.

"The people there will assist you. I have things to do at the hospital; wait for me. I need to speak with the board. Take care."

He walked to the opposite side near the lift to the hospital’s main entrance, while I wondered, that’s it?

I shouted, "Is that bloody it? Alright then. It was nice talking to you," but he had already stepped into the lift to hear anything.

Thinking I’d never see him again, I sauntered to the E.R. lobby and sat in the waiting room until I was called.

The waiting room was nicer than expected.

It was a sympathetic and depressingly stolid showcase of human resilience, where patients sat in order in a very white lobby, awaiting their wrist-coded strap numbers to be called.

Ficus trees surrounded everywhere, like a surplus of jungle fever had contracted at every floor; at every corner there was a plant, and placed above it were posters of your basic ABCs and various weavings telling you that you are unhealthy without saying that you are.

The lounge had modest chairs with steel divans—a modern take on airport seating.

I would have preferred a seat with a back post over a broad chair without one; falling asleep on a chair without back support is a hilarious way to conk the back of your head and get a concussion.

There weren’t a lot of patients in the waiting room.

Maybe because it was in the middle of the afternoon and it was a slow day.

The nearest neighbouring stranger was seated several seats from me, so I knew the dull wait was amongst us.

The upside was that it only took me less than thirty minutes before my name was called and I was ushered into another hallway of utter chaos.

As I passed numerous beds inhabited by children sobbing from their school bus that had been toppled over by a raving drunk driver (as told by the nurse who had answered my gossip-laden inquiry), I was amazed to see the absolute lunacy of a teaching hospital and that there was a section in the A&E reserved for this madness.

The raucous clamour was augmented by a man shouting hysterically to his fiancé, gripping the edge of her tattered wedding gown, and spitting accusations of infidelity as the clearest sign of marital bliss.

One of the orderlies intervened by shoving him to sit down.

An elderly woman with a split knee was getting numerous stitches; everyone could see the blood and the bone as the intern Frakenstein’d the stitches.

I bobbed my head to find the shouting.

I saw a man in a suit and tie screaming on the phone to his associate that they needed to get the merger done by five when he suddenly began flailing his arms like a dying fish.

Doctors and nurses wheeled him away.

The defibrillator began pumping into his chest as he was having a heart attack.

Beside my chair, a nun was calmly reading a romance saga about forbidden vampires and whatnot; her foot was being bandaged while she hid the reading material from plain view and smiled at me.

One of the doctors, an intern, advised me, "Someone will be coming to you shortly. We’re just packed at the moment."

Then I saw Nathan errantly walking through the floor in his white coat, looking—as difficult as it is for me to admit—sinfully handsome in his doctor’s uniform.

He was more than furious; his eyes turned to everyone in the room when he began ordering a group of interns to corroborate the whereabouts of a patient.

The faces of his minions and their feared expressions as they faced his wrath were more than telling of his mood.

"Where the bloody hell is my patient—the one with the abdominal mass consistent with pancreatic cancer? Someone answer me now!"

The shy intern, gazing at the ground, said, "They moved him to room 805, sir. Are you going to perform the whipple, Dr. Worthington?"

"You think doing a pancreatic duodenectomy for the patient is the best solution Dr. Lancing?" He glanced at her, and she ducked her head. "Anyone astute enough to give a viable solution without sounding completely asinine and stupid? Fatuous observations will be disregarded and unaccounted for."

They strangely stared at each other as though one of them had swallowed the key to the treasure trove of knowledge, and one student brave enough to solve the riddle raised his arm.

"Er, yes sir," said the obnoxious intern, "it’s the best solution to remove the head of the pancreas where the cells have metastasized."

"That’s correct." The obnoxious intern shrugged with a smile. "Congratulations for killing the patient—MY patient. Next time you give an opinion, ensure that it’s not coming directly out of your arse, Dr. Miles."

Every subordinate was rattled as they kept their composure with their attitude wholly defeated.

He looked very strict for an attending doctor.

Even I felt embarrassed for them.

"Don’t ever provide me with barmy conjectures without knowing every single detail. I will not tolerate mistakes and smug stupidity." He glanced at the young doctor. "The patient will need a full-blood workup and abdominal CT, then an M.R.I. He’ll also need an enema, an ENRCP for a stent, and a brush biopsy." His order sounded more like a punishment than what the patient required.

"An enema, sir?"

"You have a problem with that Dr. Miles? Or would you prefer I assign you to do scat work?"

"No-no, Dr. Worthington. Yeah-yeah, I’m good."

"Then do it now!" He clapped his hand, and everyone rushed to their occupation. He then turned around and walked over to where I was sitting. He was surprised to find me sitting on a waiting chair—not on top of an emergency bed, but in a plastic chair deposited from the overcrowding of this department.

"Can someone help this man?" His eyes turned around for an extra set of professional hands. He exhaled hard and yelled, "Oh for god sakes, can someone please assist my boyfriend? I have a meeting in five seconds, and any available doctor would be appreciated. Thank you."

"Boyfriend?"

He walked over to me and whispered, "Just go with the flow. If they ask questions, just don’t answer. Everyone’s interested in my personal life, so this’ll hasten things up," as he darted off to another section of the hospital, leaving me at the mercy of those curious about my relationship with the doctor.

His five interns bustling about the room suddenly halted in their tracks and stared at me.

A nurse changing the bedpan on the other bed eyed me questioningly.

Several of the staff were intrigued.

A female doctor, looking like she was carved out of a Sports Illustrated magazine, promenaded behind one of the nurses to scope me out.

She took my hand and said, "So you’re Dr. Worthington’s—"her eyes glanced over to the nurse who held my hand and transferred me to a vacant bed"—boyfriend? Did I hear that right?"

I understood that I had to go with the lie, since Nathan was nowhere to be found, and getting things done with the help of this falsehood may prove convenient for my sake.

So I said, "Er, yeah," sounding very hesitant.

"Well then. Good afternoon. I’m Dr. Andy Kraust," she said with her brown waves curled perfectly, set by two dimples on her cheeks.

She was better off as a naked news anchor than a doctor in this crowded mayhem.

She held my hand, studied the bruising, and whispered something to the several nurses that had enclosed the area.

I was like a lab rat, psychologically dissected by their judgement and soundless nodding.

She then said, "I know we just met but you’re lucky. Nathan never publicly announces his relationship at work. You should be grateful," and walked over to another patient across the other side, vanishing in the busy trample of people.

Smudged with confusion and a spoonful of ire, I disregarded the doctor’s comment.

After all, I don’t really know Nathan...so what the fuck should I be grateful for?

I heard a whisper in the background. "Look at that girl, she’s still pining for him. Some people have no shame at all. Gross."

"Girl, I don’t care about Dr. Kraust. She’s past her expiration date. She’s not my competition, and she’s just hovering around him like a fly. I thought he was into twinks though," said a male voice, sounding like it came from one of the nurses. "Do I need to go to the gym?"

"I really thought he likes women. I’m going to need coffee for this. My day’s ruined now. I’m going for a coffee break, anyone coming?"

"Bitch please, get over yourself. The man’s been swapping penises and vaginas like the checkout counter at Harrods. Rumour is, he’s bi. So everyone has a chance."

The shy intern whispered something. "I told you, Dr. Worthington’s not single. He never proclaims anything as shocking as this."

The tall one answered, holding an IV bag, "That’s true. But I can’t believe he has a boyfriend though. I didn’t foresee this. Do you think he’d like his tea with two teaspoons of sugar or with a dollop of sugar now? This change in behaviour is very sudden."

"Stop obsessing about the doc Chris. This one here looks like he’s straight from the streets of Camden—ghetto chic if you ask me. He’s a goodlooking chap, but I doubt they'll last long," said the obnoxious intern, who grew quiet when everyone’s stare silenced him from the cardinal rule of not talking about patients directly without their coding system.

Even in a pretend scenario where Nathan had confessed to our relationship, it seems I wasn’t good enough by a stark mile to their standard.

Well, I don’t give shit’s arse about it—I’ll never see him again after this anyway.

The crowd of doctors and nurses began to disperse.

Only two nurses were left by my side, mending my hand.

Several deep cuts and scrapes were all it took. Doctor quack quack may have exaggerated his prognosis.

I didn’t have any broken bones, and I could even bend my hand.

Maybe not so much on lifting with my fingers and typing on my phone; however, my hand was functional.

They advised me it would take a couple of days before I’d be able to fully use my hand’s mobility, as they did several stitches, wrapped it in a bandage, and told me I was good to go.

Standing at the bus stop in front of the hospital, I calculated my ride home with the remaining £12 on my metro card.

The vision of Nathan’s ex was drumming inside my head—she was bouncing around the walls of my empty mind, telling me that I wasn’t good enough.

Minutes of cogitating my existential crisis when it occurred to me.

I was good enough for fucking what?

I don’t know the guy.

What the hell was I thinking and feeling insecure about?

That should cover the cost of the fare to get home and travel to tonight’s waitering gig, as I said to myself, forcing myself to think, more like dragging myself to be distracted.

Then, an SUV suddenly parked in front of me with the windows to the driver's seat pulled down.

"You didn’t tell me you were done! I’ve been looking all over for you. I asked the nurses where you are and they said you left thirty minutes ago. You should have told me," said Nathan, with a slight twinge of irritation in his voice. “Why didn’t you tell me? I nearly lost you!”

From the stirrings of my perpetual annoyance, I looked left and right as though I was searching for something and said, "Sorry, mate, but I don’t see your number anywhere. You never gave it to me," matching the intensity in his voice.

"You should’ve waited."

"I didn’t know what time you were finishing, did I?"

"I told you to wait for me."

"You didn’t tell me to wait for you."

"Yes I did. I have photographic memory, and I easily wouldn’t forget about these things. I said, I have things to do at the hospital. Wait for me."

I remembered him saying that and said, "Just to clarify, why are you being upset suddenly? You were the one who left me and never told me where the hell you were going."

He upped his displeasure by raising his volume. "Get in. Now! You’re not escaping me this time!"

“What am I, a hostage?”

I hesitated to get inside his car, hoping the next bus would magically appear so I could leave him waiting in a dramatic fashion.

"What are you waiting for? Get inside!"

However, I would have to wait 5 minutes more, and the miniature scowl exhibited by his shapely eyebrows creasing in between his face was panic-inducing.

It’s not that he looked scary, intimidating, or even frightening; I just don’t like to be rushed in the general sense of doing things.

His stare was more than rushing me; I was being forced to run.

I glanced at the bright, tubby woman standing to my left, who was also waiting for the bus, and said, "See what I have to deal with."

"You better get inside luv. Your husband’s not looking too happy," she said, swallowing a laugh as I hopped inside the car. Once I was settled, having strapped myself with the seatbelt on, Nathan asked speculatively, "Did she say, husband?"

I was crossing my arms, vexed and annoyed at him, but still answered, "Yeah. Why?"

"And you didn’t correct her?"

"No," I said, my lips pressing tight in irritation. "Why are you asking?"

"So you’re into men?"

I forgot the part where I was keeping this a secret, so he’d leave me alone. "Yes, just hurry and drive," I said, feeling agitated that all I wanted was to eat and get home.

He smiled, and he kept smiling for a good minute, realising that I’d just opened a can of worms.

"So I do have a chance. Glad to know then."

"Just, er, drive!"

There was no talking allowed in the vehicle.

I kept looking to my right at the passing buildings and the streets without so much as a glance or a stare at him.

As we were at the intersection, I clarified something.

"My hand didn’t have any broken bones. You lied to me."

He smiled and pressed his right foot on the left-hand pedal as the car stopped at the red light. "That’s good then. And yes, I lied."

I grimaced at his simple explanation.

"So you were lying to me, you piece of—"

"That stitch was how many?"

"12."

"A cut that deep would’ve suffered from infection if it weren’t treated correctly. You could’ve had a boxer’s fracture breaking your metacarpal bone. But that would be confirmed if they pushed you to do an X-ray, which I was expecting." He moved the gearshift, and the car turned left. "So that’s good. Your hand will get better in a couple of weeks."

"Oh, that makes sense." I then said blithely, "I saw your ex-girlfriend. Er, she’s, er, very pretty—almost too pretty to be a doctor. I didn’t know you’re into girls."

I was waiting for an answer when he changed the subject. "Are you hungry?"

"Maybe. I’ll eat at home."

I could sense him glancing at me; my eyes were focused on the woman crossing the street.

"We broke up before entering med school. We’re friends...not exactly close friends, but we’re civil,” he said, head straightened on the road. "I'm a very private person. I’d like to keep it that way. Whatever you heard—"

"—I didn’t hear anything."

"Well," he insisted, "whatever they are, they don’t know me. None of them know the real me."

"Me too. I don’t know who you are. We just met a few hours ago," I said, smiling.

"You have a point," he said wryly. "So you’re talking to me now?"

"We’re discussing things," I answered, my eyes gaping at him with a certain sharpness. "This isn’t friendly chatter."

Within the tumult of the torrent, the stentorian grumbling inside my stomach was shouting for attention.

I held it and pressed it in, wishing for it to shut up.

Once he heard the joyous chorus, his smile was up to his ears.

"Alright. That’s settled then. You and I are grabbing lunch."

"Damn it," I whispered, "but it’s half past two."

"We’ll have a late lunch date."

He quickly made a U-turn to head back to the city.

"This isn’t a date!" I protested. "I don’t really know you."

"The better for us to get to know each other then. And besides, it’s wishful thinking for me that this would be our first date. You will not deny me that thought, will you?"

"But I still have the duck benedict at home. I really wanted to eat that."

He swivelled his head at me and flashed his pearls. "You can eat that tomorrow morning."

I curled my lip and crossed my arms.

This man is impossible, I thought, as I hid my grin that wouldn’t stop showing.

---