Ninja at First Sight

Part 6: What's the difference between a ninja and an empty room?

"Favorite food?"

"Soup. I love soup."

I lowered my gaze to the red and white checkered tablecloth, barely resisting the urge to pick wax off the old Chianti bottle currently being used as a candle holder. I didn't know how or when Greg had discovered this quaint Italian restaurant twenty minutes from the University, but I was glad he had. The food was awesome and the ambiance was singular and romantic. Manganiello's Italian Restaurant was a vast improvement over the Olive Garden.

Tonight was technically our first date, our first meal together not in the dorms or school café. He was in a suit, therefore I was having difficulty forming sentences, or breathing, or swallowing.

"What kind?"

"All kinds."

"All kinds?"

"Yes."

"Even lentil?" He sounded and looked shocked, appalled even.

I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing; apparently, trying not to laugh was my default expression when speaking with Greg. "I've been known to enjoy lentil soup, yes."

"Lentil soup is disgusting. It's the exact same texture as brains."

I lifted an eyebrow at this characterization of lentil soup. "And you know this how?"

"Stop changing the subject, why do you like soup so much—including, but not limited to, brain soup?"

I sighed, though it was a smiley sigh because I was enjoying his quick-witted irascibility. "I guess because soups are the food equivalent of a warm hug."

And just like that, his judgmental expression cleared. "Nice." He nodded his approval, giving me a quick smile before continuing his barrage of first date questions. I got the impression he'd been saving them up. "Okay, favorite ice cream?"

And just like that I was imagining Greg licking ice cream. My chest tightened. I cleared my throat, averted my eyes, and reached for my water.

Now late-April, we'd spent over two months kissing, touching over clothes, and cuddling. Maybe light caresses on my stomach and back. And not very often—twice a week, three times if I were lucky.

I thought about Hivan and Dara and their constant physical encounters. Greg and I were their opposite. They never spoke except to scream at each other. Greg and I spoke constantly and about almost everything under the sun—current events, history, philosophy, books, movies, hopes, dreams—and conversing with him felt akin to breathing, natural and necessary.

I'd learned he wanted to be a petroleum engineer, ato keep accidents like the Exxon-Valdez disaster from happening again. I learned he was passionate about the environment, eradicating poverty and the resulting hunger and homelessness.

Yet we hadn't made it past second base.

We were taking things slow. Really, really slow. Molasses slow. Tectonic plates slow. Erosion slow. At first the slowness had been comforting, reassuring.

But now, I was fixating.

Little things about him had become oddly erotic and distracting. The way he pursed his mouth when he whistled, or how he'd stroke his bottom lip with his thumb when he was concentrating. His hands were a frequent source of thought derailment; sometimes I'd catch myself staring at his fingers and knuckles, and I'd lose my breath.

I was twisted in knots.

I couldn't quite look at him yet, still distracted by the mental image of him licking an ice cream cone, so I stated my response to the tablecloth. "No favorite."