Parole | Zarry

06

VOTE | COMMENT

Harry whistled in appreciation, which made Zayn smile.

The restaurant was a couple of miles away.

It was in an old house, and there was a soggy looking patio off to one side, packed with empty tables.

They entered the warm interior, and a pretty girl with a low-cut black top and a tattoo of swallow on her arm greeted them.

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"Reservations?"

To Harry's surprise, Zayn nodded and held out a card.

This one had just his name printed on it.

"Oh, Mr. Malik." She dimpled.

"Follow me, please."

They did, with Harry wondering how the hell Zayn had managed to make reservations.

This place was considerably fancier than the brewpubs that constituted his occasional splurges.

They were seated at a small table in a quiet corner of the restaurant, a flickering candle and a white rose in a simple vase between them.

Almost as soon as they were seated, a tall, skinny guy with glasses walked over and handed them each a menu.

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"Hi. Can I get you something to drink?"

"Smirnoff Ice."

Harry said right away, and the waiter nodded.

Zayn pulled something out of his jacket pocket.

It looked like a bunch of laminated cards held together by a metal ring.

He flipped quickly through them and held one out for the waiter, who leaned over slightly to read it in the dim light.

"John straight up. No problem, sir."

The waiter said, and then walked away.

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"You have cards?" Harry asked.

Zayn handed them over.

There were quite a few.

One of them was the same as the card Harry had initially received, and one had just Zayn's name, but the rest contained phrases that someone might need to order things or to navigate through the world.

I have an appointment.

John samuel.

So rare it moos.

Bugger off.

The bloody furnace is broken again.

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"How come you don't use something high-techier? Like an iPad."

Holding his hands far apart and miming lifting something heavy.

Zayn indicated that he thought tablets were too bulky.

Then he pretended to search the walls in vain for an outlet for the imaginary plug he was holding.

Maybe cards were easier, Harry thought.

They fit easily into a pocket.

No worries about dead batteries.

And Zayn's collection seemed to cover most contingencies.

The final card showed a name

Celine McCain

-and a phone number with a Bradford,England area code.

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"Relative?"

Harry asked, pointing at the card.

Zayn made a sour face and rocked his hand back and forth.

"A sort of relative? Hmm...."

Zayn huffed and pulled out his wallet.

There was a photo in there of a much younger Zayn standing next to a man who looked remarkably like him and was obviously his father.

On the other side of him was a tall woman in glasses and a wool suit.

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"Your mom?" Harry guessed.

Zayn shook his head and made a

"keep going" gesture.

"Oh! Stepmom!"

Nod.

"Is your dad.."

Zayn shook his head sadly.

"Oh, man. I'm sorry."

And then he hid his face with the typewritten menu.

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When the waiter came back, Harry still hadn't made up his mind.

Everything sounded great-but after a steady diet of frozen burritos, anything would.

Then Zayn pointed to corn bisque and some kind of chicken dish with mustard and pickles, and Harry ordered the same.

They talked as they waited for their food and continued when the meal arrived.

And the funny thing was, while Zayn couldn't actually say any words, he somehow managed to communicate quite a lot.

Sometimes Harry felt almost hypnotized by those long, strong fingers and those evermoving eyebrows.

And, oh God, that full lower lip....

With some difficulty, Harry managed to keep himself under control.

• ☘ •

- The wind is blowing so soft and cold, It's sending a shiver in my soul; Touching my heart with the gentle coldness engulfing me with soft care.