Eve(-1)

The Sort-Of Date?

I lay on my stomach on the wooden floorboards of my room, my mind as blank as the empty WebStoree page in front of me, the small black cursor flashing at me dauntingly. It was late Thursday morning, and I was frantically trying to type up chapter thirteen of Inside My Head within my self-set deadline. The fact that it had now grown to 42k reads and it had moved up to place #65 in the top 1000 in the paranormal category added to the already plentiful pressure that was heaped upon my shoulders. "Come on, come on, think!" I muttered, whacking my skull to try and get my brain to conjure up something, which was probably not the smartest idea considering that I was killing brain cells in the process of doing so. "You're supposed to publish this tomorrow! You've had an entire week to write this, and what have you been doing? Worrying and washing your bloody hands! Why didn't you just write it all first and then upload a chapter every week?! Think of something!" Freya, one of my friends in another form, had once told me that being a good writer was five percent talent,  five percent dedication and ideas and ninety percent not being distracted by the internet. Since she was one of the most successful writers on WebStoree, with hundreds of thousands of reads on both of the books she'd written, I knew she was right. But I'd never really experienced it. Until now. I'd planned out chapters one through to twelve in forensic detail, but, wrongly so, I'd thought the story would've come to a close by then. After uselessly wracking my brain for another ten minutes, I gave in and texted Erin, Ava and Penny for ideas, all of whom were also extremely successful Webstoree writers.  But suddenly a thought rushed to the front of my head, reminding me of something. I was sure I had somewhere to be today, but my mind seemed to be too lazy to remember exactly where. I sifted through my thoughts, and found one that looked correct. And then it struck me. I was supposed to meet Dylan in La Cucina de Pesce, the newly-opened Italian restaurant for the sort-of-date, in less than an hour! Uttering a curse word that was maybe slightly  too strong for the situation, I slipped my arms into a shirt and my legs into a pair of black jeans, twisted my hair into a loose blue braid and grabbed my phone which was sitting innocently on the desk. Then I hurtled down the stairs, shouting to Dad to tell him where I was going so that he wouldn't unnecessarily panic and call both the police and the fire brigade for good measure, and grabbed a cereal bar to eat on the way (yes,I know that I was about to have lunch, but hey, I was hungry. And no, I am not fat. I am just slightly...generous in certain areas).

As I rushed through the wintry streets towards the restaurant I thought a bit more about what I was doing. I knew that it was perfectly okay for people of the same sex to date, be in love, marry, etc. One of Dad's brothers had a boyfriend, so I had never really thought of it as unusual. But I knew that, while it was mostly accepted now, there were a lot  of people who, for some unfathomable reason, thought there was something very wrong with it. There was plenty of proof for this at Redpark High, where endless numbers of popular, air headed cliques ruled over the less popular students, ie.my friends and I, and the girls loved to make their opinions about that kind of thing heard. They were racist, homophobic, transphobic and sometimes even sexist, and I hated having anything to do with them.  If any of them saw us in the cafe... A shudder coursed through me at the thought of the fallacious rumors that would bloom through the school about us. I know that I could easily deny them and claim that I was straight, but would they believe me? No. They most certainly wouldn't. And stop walking around in circles like a maniac. In case you haven't noticed, we're here. And I was. Already I could hear the inviting sounds of La Cucina de Pesce that were drifting through the glass door: the chinking of wine glasses, the slightly tipsy laughter, the warm chatter, the scraping of cutlery and the smell of Italian cuisine. And then I saw her. Sitting alone at a little round table in the middle of the noise, her menu propped up in front of her and her head repeatedly swiveling hopefully towards the door. Taking a deep breath, I turned the brass handle and pushed open the door, and walked over to the little table where Dylan was seated. Hopefully she hadn't been waiting long. I slid into the seat opposite her, and she looked up from the spiral notepad that she was scribbling in and smiled at me. "You came." I smiled back at her. "What, you think I'd make you wait here for hours on your own? You're my best friend- I wouldn't do that to you!" Oh, so she's your best friend now, is she? I'm pretty sure that she's a bit more than just a friend, maybe a cr- 'Shut it!' I mentally screamed, trying my hardest to block out the thought. Trying to keep my thoughts from showing on my face, I inquired, "So, have you posted the story yet? I need to read the next chapter!" Her grin widened and she dropped the notepad and pen into her bag before answering. "I've nearly finished chapter thirteen. Just a few more sentences and then I'll post." I twirled a fork absent-mindedly between my fingers,and then grinned. I'd thought of something that would really  annoy her. I knew she hated being asked this, but, being her best friend, I asked anyway: "Can I see it?" She groaned, and I laughed, playing along with the teasing. No matter how many times I'd asked, her answer never changed. "Eve, I  don't know how many times we've had to go through this! No you cannot see it before I publish it. It'll be up tomorrow! You can wait that long, can't you?!" I pretended to ponder the question for a few seconds before responding. "No!" My grin widened, and she sighed teasingly. "Ah, Eve. You can't wait twenty-four hours for an update? I'm disappointed in you, I thought you had some willpower." We looked each other in the eyes for a split-second and then burst out laughing. A waiter emerged from the kitchen and eyed us warily before approaching with a notepad and pen in his hands.

"Are you ladies ready to order yet, or do you need more time?" He was a short, portly man with a rather long beard, which, I thought to myself, made him look a lot like a tiny Viking, and a small name badge on his chest with JACK printed on it in block letters. Even after all these years, this simple detail caused a lump to form in my throat.  My eyes traveled down the long list of dishes, and after a few seconds I said, " Erm, I'll have the lasagne please, and some orange juice to drink." He smiled, scribbled down my order, and turned to Dylan. What with the combination of him being short and the chairs being quite high, we both had to virtually look down at him, which didn't make the situation any less awkward. "I'll have the stuffed chicken and pasta, with mineral water please," Dylan informed him, after much poring over the menu. "Excellent!" He beamed up at us-yes, up at us, he was that short. "Excellent choices, ladies! I will have those for you right away! And, may I just say what a beautiful couple you are? Young love is gorgeous, is it not?" OH MY GOD. I couldn't believe what I had just heard. Had my ears been working properly? I checked briefly, and they seemed to be fine. Crap. So I'd heard right, then. He really was deluded. I glanced across the table at my 'girlfriend' to see that her face had gone so red, I began to worry that it might explode and splatter me and the nearby diners with brains and body gore. Oh, for god's sake girl, stop kidding yourself. You know you love her really. Remember the dream? The thoughts I was having had become even more vocal-seeming, and they seemed to be obsessed with Dylan. Or rather, you're obsessed. Do you remember that fantasy you had in one of those extra Maths lessons that Dad insists on giving you? You do remember? Yes, that was quite a steamy one, wasn't it? I remembered, and my face took on the colour of a tomato that had been coated in scarlet ink, and mentally I tried to set the thoughts straight. 'It was not steamy!' I mentally shrieked, feeling  my face turn, if it was even possible, even redder. Now I probably looked like a tomato in a blue wig. 'I was just bored, okay?! And anyway, even if I did accidentally think about it, it does not  mean that I want it to happen in real life!' Oh, sure  you don't. The thought dripped with sarcasm. You fantasized completely  by accident. Exactly who do you think you're kidding? It's pretty much impossible to have a fantasy like that by accident, Eve. You know that. And I did. I just didn't want to admit it to myself. 

Five minutes of blushing through awkward attempts at conversation later, Jack reappeared, tottering under two larger-than-expected plates of steaming lasagne and chicken. Before setting my meal down on the table, he filled in a small heart-shaped card with a form written on it which I hadn't noticed before. Probably some donation thing or something. "Enjoy, lovebirds," he grinned and winked at us suggestively. More blood rushed to our faces, and I had to clench my hands into fists to stop myself from reaching over and throttling him.  After I had made sure that he wasn't lurking somewhere listening, I leaned across the table and sniggered, "So, he was kind of obsessed with the idea of us being a couple, huh?" I giggled nervously, trying to conceal my embarrassment. She smiled uncertainly and prodded her chicken with a fork. Suddenly, a shout rose up from the front of the restaurant. "Ladies and gentlemen! May I have your attention, please?" The deep, masculine voice came from a smartly dressed figure who stood on a small podium next to the doors. In between his fingers was a heart-shaped piece of card, which, after he had cleared his throat, he began to read from. "This, if I may say so myself, exceptional  restaurant has an annual Winter tradition, during which the staff choose the best couple out of all the day's customers. So, may the lovely ladies sitting at table seven come to the front, please?" Hardly daring to look, I slowly turned my head until it faced the table number card. Sure enough, on it was printed a large black '7'. Damn him! Couldn't that stupid waiter get it into his head that we were not a couple? Oh, aren't you? 'Shut your face!' Reluctantly, Dylan and I stood up and made our way to the front, as instructed. The man awkwardly shook our hands and made us face the rest of the diners, from whom we received a smattering of unenthusiastic applause. Then, with burning crimson faces we stumbled back to our cursed table, grabbed our coats and fled into the icy high street.

Once outside, we strolled own the frozen pavement, our warm breath smoking into the air before us. Just before we went our separate ways, I said, "I'm sure that waiter knew that we weren't a couple. Or maybe he was deluded. Who knows? We're just friends, right?" She cautiously reached up and touched my face with one pale finger. The touch sent shivers down my spine. "Sure. Only friends, Eve," she replied, giving me a knowing smile before walking away.

What was that all about?