Alistair and I decide to go to Old Town. I’m the one doing the most of the deciding, since Alistair doesn’t know much about the area, but he nods at my good suggestions, and winkles his nose when I suggest the raw vegan bar.
“I’m a bird of prey, after all,” he says, and I smile.
So we go to this funky looking pizza joint, down near the water. He can have his sausage pizza there, and I can get my veggie.
Other boys I’ve dated, they’ve never understood. They’ve looked at me weird when I’ve insisted on sitting on the side of the table facing the door (my father and I watched too many Westerns, and I had learned never to turn your back on the door), or wondered why I love green peppers so obsessively.
Alistair didn’t. Alistair let me chose which side of the booth I wanted, without me even having to launch into my explanation. Alistair said he would split a pizza with me, and that I could even put some green peppers on his side, if I really wanted to. Alistair looked at the pictures on the walls, of the pizza joint patrons, and made up stories about them.
Alistair understood everything.
I realize I’m counting Alistair among the boys I had dated, and feel my cheeks flush. I look down, quick.
“Are you okay?”
I nod, unable to look up.
“You’re all pink. Is that normal? Are you okay?”
After a few giant sips of Dr. Pepper, I manage to look him in the eye again. “I’m just blushing. I just thought about . . . I thought . . .”
He still looks worried. “But you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. Don’t worry. I’m not going to spontaneously combust.”
Alistair leans across the table, and rubs at my cheek, like he’s trying to wipe the pinkness away. “That’s good. Because if you go into flames before I do, that’ll be very sad. If you ever feel like you’re going to spontaneously combust, let me know. So then we can go together.”
The waiter brings our pizza. It’s not perfectly split; a couple bits of sausage snuck over to the vegetarian side, but I don’t complain. I like it, how its mixed together. I like how Alistair’s hand brushes mine when we both reach for the pizza.
Alistair goes for the offending sausage slice first. He swallows the thing like a hawk swallows a mouse; he rolls it slightly, so it’ll fit better, and hangs back his head and drops the pizza down. I don’t think he even chews.
“Damn,” I say.
“I’m sorry. I suppose that’s not how I’m suppose to do it?”
“Little bites,” I tell him, and nibble at the crust of my pizza to show him. It doesn’t go as smoothly as it should, when I’m supposed to be the one setting the example. The sauce burns my tongue, and I spit it back out onto the plate, a disgusting half-chewed mess. Alistair may swallow pizza like it’s a small dead animal, but the blob coming out of my mouth looked like a dead animal.
YOU ARE READING
Our Ashes Will Fly
Short StoryI'm in love with a boy. He has red hair and blue eyes, and skin as pretty and perfect as marble. And one of these days, he's going to burst into flames.
