“Do you want me to make something?” I ask, getting up and following Michael out of the bedroom.
“No, we’re going to IHOP.”
“Oh. Do I get a say in this?” I ask.
“No. Do you not like IHOP?” He turns back to me.
“IHOP is fine.”
“No, Kate. IHOP is not ‘fine,’” he makes air quotes. “IHOP is the Mecca of breakfast lovers.”
“Are you always this passionate about food?” I ask with a laugh, remembering the time he told me he was ‘dining with Jesus.’
“Yes, all food. Except for salad.”
“I make pretty good salads,” I say.
“Well Kate, for you I might reconsider. Let’s go.” He hands me a coat midsentence, which I take with just a slight shake of my head. He gives me whiplash.
Michael expertly drives us to the nearest IHOP, one that I hadn’t ever even noticed, right off the freeway. “What are you getting?” I ask him as we slide into a small booth. Michael looks at me as if I’ve grown two heads. “What?” I ask.
“It’s IHOP,” he says.
“Okay?”
“International House of Pancakes,” he says.
“So you’re getting pancakes?” I ask. He just stares at me as if I should take that as my answer. “What kind of pancakes?
“The kind with syrup,” he says, amused.
“Just regular pancakes?” I ask. Michael nods. “Cliché,” I whisper under my breath, but loud enough for him to hear.
“It’s classic, Katie.”
“It’s boring, Mikey,” I say. I cringe at the nickname, it sounds terrible.
“I am not boring,” he scoffs.
“Then order something different,” I challenge.
“What else do they have?” He asks. “It’s IHOP.” I hand him a menu while I glance over my own. When the waiter comes to take our order, Michael hesitantly orders sweet potato pancakes. I have to bite back a laugh; that’s a little more ‘different’ than I had expected.
We small talk causally until our food comes, and I am glad for that. I was a bit afraid that we would run out of things to talk about. Although I never really understood how people really ran out of things to talk about. There is so much, and as long as you are interested in the person you are speaking to, you could theoretically never stop talking. And Michael and I seem to be very interested in each other.
Michael eyes his plate apprehensively, but he seems pleasantly surprised when he takes his first bite. He glances over at my plate and groans. I ordered berry pancakes, which look delicious. The fluffy brown pancakes are topped with fruit so bright they appear to shine like jewels, strawberries, raspberries, and blueberries.
“Now why would you ruin a perfectly good stack of pancakes with all that healthy shit?” Michael asks with his mouth full.
I just shake my head and laugh, watching him eat while enjoying my meal. “This is actually really good,” he says grudgingly.
“Really?” I wrinkle my nose at his plate.
“You’re the one who told me to get this!” He crows.
“I did not!” I laugh. “I told you to get something different. Not something weird.”
Michael looks at me a little too long, a little too calculating. “I’m beginning to think that different is good,” he says with a smile.
