Inferno

nine | the 'date' date

The number of times I sneak a look in the mirror borders on pathetic.

Things I never bothered about before fight their way up through years of ignorance, and suddenly I'm left wondering if my collar bone's appearing too boney and if my face is always as washed up as it is now. It's all prudish overthinking, but that's not what I'm concerned about; it's the thought I'm putting into all of this, that baffles me every time I fix the alignment of my hoop earrings or brush the hem of my satin pink dress.

Thankfully, before I get a better mind to change into another outfit altogether, my phone pings and I see Chase's voice message pop up on the partially cracked screen. Tapping, I hold it close to my ear, my attention diverted from the goosebumps rising on my arms. "Hope you're ready to be amazed. Be there in five."

Those five minutes turn into ten, and the wait seems agonising, particularly to my feet squirmed in a pair of nude pencil heels that I can't carry for any longer than a fourth of a mile at a time. So when I see his convertible veer down the street, a concoction of relief and anxiety churns in my stomach, the feeling as unusual as it sounds.

I expect a smart remark when he halts on the side, but nothing comes my way except the whooshing wind and an incoherent noise erupting out of him. I truly am amazed. "That's strike two for you," I can't help but gloat as I step inside the car, sweeping the ends of my longish dress off the road.

"What does that mean?" He's out of his faze, confusion evident on his innocently twisted smile.

"That's the second time I've got you speechless." I'm immediately taken back to that eventful plane ride, subconsciously peering at how far that memory seems at the moment.

He appears to be reflecting, nodding his head along as it all comes back and makes sense to him, "sure, but you're not playing a fair game. I mean, to come out looking like that is clearly bending the odds to your advantage."

A snarky comment sits on the tip of my tongue, almost slipping out until I realise what he's trying to imply. Blush deepening, I'm now the one trying to grab words from thin air and effectively failing while at it. Not so easily though. "Flattery's not going to earn you points, Cameron."

"Oh, that's okay, I've already got something much more worthy," he pulls the gears, madly grinning to himself while the ambiguity remains intact. All proper until he picks up his phone and beats of rock music begin throbbing on the stereo, the system connected via aux. The name of the song flashes in white, reading out as 'when I see you smile.'

The ruddiness of my cheeks is profuse than ever, but soon turns into the last stick of thought on my mind as we gallop away into the nightlife of Barcelona.

It can be a good day if you want it to be a good day.

~~~~~~~

"So how's it seeming? I'm blindly going by your recommendation here," he raises his hands, walking by my side over to the concierge's table, above which, inscribed in gold, are the words 'La Fontaine' on a coarse white wall.

I should have had a clue this is going to be it after I mentioned the restaurant in the car ride earlier, but then it's one of those places you don't get reservations at, as easily. So I'm still amused how he managed to put this together. "When did you make the reservations, exactly?"

"I didn't, I just figured we'd pick a table when we get to it," his demeanour, breezy per usual, doesn't show a qualm about the fact that we're probably going to get kicked out of here in the coming seconds when we try explaining the hotel how our nature's spontaneous that way. "I'm not sure that's how they're going to see it." The words are barely uttered when the concierge, a French looking guy, comes rushing to the both of us, eyes wide and somewhat panicky.