Like We Used To || Manuel Neuer

9

             Manuel's eyes bore into my own, and that's when I know I am gone. There is no way in hell that I'm awake and that he's actually staring at me. There is no way—not even a quaint chance—that his eyes are gleaming in mischief with me around; no way that his lips are twitched into a genuine smile.

And then he takes me to a restaurant, one of the finest ones I have had the privilege to lay my eyes on, and everything existing inside of the confines of the place's walls, even the air trapped within, appears expensive. And that's when I know this is real—only Neuer can afford something this elegant. 

The first thing you would notice as you walked in the restaurant is the shiny chandeliers, hanging from the beautifully crafted ceiling, coated in aquamarine paint. Another glorious aspect is the colossal window that borders the paradise, prompting a view of the sea.

It is almost midnight, and the seawater glistens in the distance along with the rest of the beach's contents, stunningly gracing the horizon.

"This place is beautiful, Manu, it really is, but I don't think I can afford it, even if it's just for just the night," I say sheepishly, scratching the back of my head.

Incredulous, Manuel fixes his gaze on me. "Azelie—"

"Sorry. I j—"

"Stop that. Did you really think I would make you pay? Everything is on me, liebe."

"I told you not to call me that."

"You've told me a lot of things. Would we be here if I'd complied?"

"I guess not," I murmur, straying my eyes from on Manuel. My voice is faint, so faint, that it easily drowns in the soft—barely audible—violin instrumental playing in the background.

"There you go. Now, what do you want to eat?"

I grab the menu, which is sprawled on the table before us, and as my eyes scan the content and their prices, I find myself growing more and more nervous. Everything here costs a fortune, and even though Manuel's promised to buy me whatever I want, it feels wrong to mooch off of him. So, after grazing my eyes through the menu for what must've been eternity, I settle for the least expensive item: a caesar salad.

Manuel orders a salad as well, and I stifle a laugh. "What, are you on a diet or something?" I remark jokingly.

"Are you?" Manuel retorts, allowing a smirk to materialize on his face.

I roll my eyes dismissively, dropping the topic. After a brief pause, I say, "So, anyways, congratulations on today. You know, on your victory."

"You mean our victory."

I click my tongue, feigning an apologetic look before saying, "Oh, I don't know, Manuel, I'm not sure I was rooting for Germany today. I mean, who in their sane mind wouldn't favor Cristiano Ronaldo's team? Have you seen those abs?"

Manuel scoffs.

"What?" I say. "It's true! He has nice abs."

"You're only saying that because you haven't seen mine."

"Not with those undershirts you constantly wear," I deadpan, and my expression is so serious, Manuel's eyes, in a baffled haze, widen. And I understand why they would.

It's because we're having a decent conversation.

Because we're carrying out something that isn't intimate.

Because we're not throwing insults at one another.

Because we're not having another one of our infamous confrontation sessions.