Spades

n i n e : she is not a fan of torture flicks

| NINE |

SHE IS NOT A FAN OF TORTURE FLICKS

"Okay, so I don't exactly know what happened yesterday, but I just want you to know that I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable or if I offended you in any way."

Eira blinked at her second coffee first, and then at Isaiah. She stared into his pale blues with such complete bewilderment that Isaiah's first thought was that all he had said had come out as one long incomprehensible word. While that was most likely true, Isaiah took that as a good sign. It either meant he completely exaggerated or misread the situation, or that she'd forgotten what he said yesterday (what did he say?) and everything could be swell again. Or, it could mean that he'd have to repeat himself.

"I didn't mean to seem like some weirdo. Or a creep. Or like, an axe murderer or something. Cause I'm not. An axe murderer, I mean. I could never be. I faint at the sight of...you know. The b-word. That's like, an axe murderer qualification." He explained quickly. He caught himself, and his eyes widened. His tone was frantic and earnest as he tried to backtrack and attempt to dig himself out of the hole he dug.

"Not that I would know at all what the qualifications of axe murdering are! Cause, I don't. Like, I don't know at all. I'm not an axe murderer. That is to say, I'm not a weirdo or a creep either." He clarified. "But that doesn't mean that all axe murderers are weirdos and creeps. I'm sure some of them are very nice men who–" Isaiah realised the context of his words and the utterly bewildered look on Eira's face and did a complete 180.

He let out a sigh and took in a deep breath. It felt like his mouth had been running a race against itself, and lost. Terribly.

"You know what, let's start again." He sighed. "Eira, I'm sorry."

Eira nodded, and Isaiah could see that she was relieved to have understood one thing, at least.

"Great. I'm going to sit down now, and you're hopefully going to forget everything I said in these last few minutes. Except this, of course."

His calculus books hit the table with a thud, and he unlatched his calculator, powering the brainy device. It was quiet between, save the rapid click-click of Isaiah's calculator. He was about to ask her how her day went, until she spoke and broke the silence between them. Her voice was careful and a little curious.

"Were you serious about the blood thing?" Her voice took on a whisper at the word, as if Isaiah would faint if he heard it said in a normal voice. Isaiah thought it was cute, her uncertainty.

"Oh, yeah." Isaiah nodded casually.

He set his calculator and pencil down to give her his full attention, and to elaborate on his little phobia of sorts. His mother had told him once that every woman deserved undivided attention.

"It makes fistfights kinda difficult." He mimed upper cutting an invisible opponent, and Eira smiled. "Can't exactly Rocky Balboa someone when you're fainting the minute you pop one on their nose, can you?"

"That's good then." Eira said carelessly. When Isaiah gave her a questioning look, she simply shrugged. "Violence makes me uneasy."

Isaiah frowned and adopted a look of exaggerated contemplation. "Then how am I supposed to defend your honour? Your virtue?" He gasped. "With a strongly worded letter?" Isaiah scoffed teasingly. "That won't have the same effect, sweetheart."