Peroxide (Peterick)

pete's probably jesus tbh

My step grazes the outer edge of the sidewalk, my glimmering eyes saluting my companion's. "Do you think there's anything worthwhile at the cinema right now?" I question, dismissing a pebble to frolic in the street.

"Maybe, but the local nerds are probably taking up all the seats for any superhero films." A chuckle unties itself from Pete's trachea, and his gaze falls to the pavement as we near the movie theater.

Reflexively, my vision zooms in on a hoard of people possibly gossiping idly about what they predict will transpire next in their favorite motion picture saga, as if it will matter until a year later, and though this random occurrence shouldn't be nerve-wracking for anyone, it is for me — I go to a psychologist to fix it after all, but recalling how I burst out of his office earlier today, it's a productive thing to realize that I'm not on track so far, perhaps more productive than anything our sessions teach me.

Pins of sweat carve into my skin, alerting my heart to deploy battle drummers to pound against its walls in a signal of an attack, and my brain spirals out of control right before me.

I wasn't equipped for this many people.

"Patrick, are you okay?" Pete's sudden awareness of my situation leads me to believe that he's probably the second coming of Christ, in my own atheistic way, as we gravitate to the lines of movie posters bolted to the wall once I regain complete consciousness.

The simple presence of one showing replaces the battle drummers with charming fiddlers, and my finger ascends to point towards the sign. "What about this one?"

Pete squints to read the title of the flick so far down the row, whispering with each syllable, "Suffragettes of Germany. I didn't know you were interested in feminism, Patrick."

My hands seek refuge in the stuffy pockets of my skinny jeans, folding my shoulders together. "Yeah, I guess. Do you have a problem with that?"

Pete's face melts into a smile. "No, not at all. I'm interested in feminism, too, and was actually really looking forward to watching this movie. It's even better now that I'm with you."

A stream of air humble for my circumstance topples from my lips, and I almost forget to recompense Pete for the grin with one of my own, but he's evanesced before I can interpret what he just said.

He's actually excited to be here with me?

"I'll go and get the tickets," my friend clarifies as his hip brushes the velvet rope used to contain customers, already long gone from me.

"We can split the pay," I call back, finally making use of my hands' position in my pockets to retrieve my wallet, but Pete waves it off.

"Nonsense! You're my date; this one's on me. I enjoy being classy."

A clump of phlegm pinches my throat at the use of the word "date", a word that's made me nervous for as long as I can retrospect, mostly because of the flexibility of dating in middle school — the last period I attended until I withdrew for my own home — and the pressure that came with it.

What does a date mean to Pete? What does it mean to me? What does it mean to other people? And perhaps most imperatively, what does it mean to Dr. Saporta, who is so immersed in my social life (or lack thereof)?

Stop thinking about Dr. Saporta so much, or at least long enough to pay attention to your "date".

Great, just what I needed, the voices to return on my may or may not be date. I was doing better (I swear), or at least that's what—