Knickers

PacMan With Fangs

Dom's kitchen is flooded with the kind of summery sunlight that usually hurts my head, but today I don't mind so much. It sets him aglow and warms the floor beneath our bare feet as we twirl and dance like drunks.
Lady Gaga plays on his speakers, which are wired all over the house. Her voice reminds me of my pre-emo adolescence, to a time where I wondered every day if it really was possible to be both weird and loved, without having to pick between them.
Dom hadn't lied. He's cranking out beautiful crepes every few minutes, slapping them down on the plate as if he were dunking a basketball. I stand beside the stove, cutting fruit into ugly little slices and laughing at his antics, despite my piercing headache.
"Alright," he says, stepping away from the pan. "Your turn."
"Wrong."
"Nope. No, none of that," he says, waggling a disapproving finger and pulling me by the arm in front of the stove. "Come on, you can do it. Take a spoonful of the batter. Don't forget to grease your pan."
With a partially unwrapped stick of butter, I slide the exposed end around in the hot pan and flinch at the harsh sizzling. Then, I ladle some batter into the pan and make a gratuitous mess.
"Fuck," I say.
"No worries. Quick, swirl it."
I try to do as he says, but the batter cooks into a bizarre shape before I can get it to every edge of the pan. Dom hands me the spatula to flip it, and by the time I get enough leverage to do so the other side is far beyond golden brown. I drop it with the pile of Dom's neatly made crepes.
"Looks like a Pac-Man with fangs or summat," he comments lightly. "Sick."
"Ugly little thing, really," I say, setting the pan down with a clatter. A runaway spark catches some burning batter that I had spilled, and within a minute we have a tiny little flame burning on Dom's stovetop.
My reactions are too delayed to panic immediately. Before I can lose my shit, Dom doubles over and extinguishes the flame with a well executed puff.
"Oh my god," I say, stunned. "Did I almost burn your house down?"
"No need to be so dramatic," he says, waving me off. "It was sick."
He kills the gas and takes his stack of crepes, holding it in the sunlight to be properly admired, before we adjourn to the kitchen table with our tray between us.
Between is an array of sweets, sliced strawberries and bananas, Nutella and whipped cream, peanut butter and strawberry preserves.
I can't resist the temptation. I swipe the can before Dom can reach it and hold the nozzle toward him.
"C'mere," I say, waving it slightly. "Accept your fate."
He does, wordlessly opening his mouth. It's almost brutal how much whipped cream I dispense, so much that he jerks forward so the overflow can fall onto his plate rather than his lap. It's hilarious, it really is, and though he wants to convince me he's annoyed he can't help the giggling that sprays whipped cream across the table.
We exchange glances, and burst into laughter all over again, so heaving and carefree that my abdomen begins to ache with exertion. Several napkins and even more curse words later, Dom is relatively clean and scolding me in his sweetest tone.
"Fuck me, man, I'm sticky," he says, licking his index finger, then his middle.
"I see your problem," I say, slapping a crepe down onto his plate. "Have you considered not being sticky?"
"It's crossed my mind," he says, reaching for my clumsily cut pile of strawberries. "Do you want to talk about last night?"
"I thought we already did," I say, with a generous smear of Nutella over my crepe.
"Did something happen that made you want to get shitfaced alone at a bar?"
Last night's logic resurfaces. My mind spills all the things that I'll never admit.
God, I've never been into someone this much. I've never watched their every move, listened to the inflection of every word.
Why can't I know what you're thinking? Am I on your mind? Am I just another friendly face amongst all the people you care about?
"Work," I say. "I'm a freelance writer. I was having some creative difficulties."
"I don't believe you," he says, carefully rolling his crepe. "Tell me whenever you're ready."
"All we ever talk about is me and my nonsense," I say. "I want to know about you, Dom."
He shrugs one shoulder. "Ask away. I'm an open book."
"Well, what makes you happiest?" I ask him, leaning slightly over the table in hopes that he perceives my genuine interest.
My genuine love and concern.
"Music. People. Food." He shoves the crepe into his mouth and shrugs. Then, muffled, "Easy."
"Is that what inspires your music?"
"I guess so," he says, serving himself another crepe. "I think I write mostly about the bullshit in society that goes unquestioned. The things that need to be brought to attention before we can change them."
"Yeah," I agree. "You write some heavy stuff."
"And all to an upbeat tune," he says. "My shows are mental, man. I don't know what I'd do without my fans."
Fans. I'd forgotten he has fans, that he's not my personal souvenir, snatched up from Warped Tour for keeps.
"I've never seen you perform live."
"Didn't you catch me at Warped Tour?"
"No, I was burgling some underwear at the time."
He grins, letting a few chuckles sputter out. "Well, you should see one of my shows. Feels like I come alive on stage."
"I've seen videos," I say. "Where do you get all the energy?"
"The ADHD," he says simply, alongside another toothy smile. "Been buzzing all my life."
"I figured," I say. "You were the ADHD kid. I was the depressed kid." I steal a glance up at him to scan for a reaction. "When I was young and didn't know better, I envied the people like you, so full of life and energy."
"And I guess I envied the people like you, able to sit quietly for long enough to focus."
I nod along with his words, picking at the torn up crepe under my fork. "Makes you realize that, no matter what, everything sucks in one way or another."
"Everything sucks 'til you find your place in the world," he says. "Thank god I found mine. You find yours?"
He looks up at me with those seafoam eyes again, and silently I confess. It's with you. With you. With you.
"I'm looking," I tell him, and I swear I'm about to do it. The words are on the tip of my tongue.
Hey, Dom, it's me, Marley. Warped Tour girl. The drunk with all the inhibitions. Anyway, I have a big fat fucking crush on you and I want to date you. Properly. I want to smash my stupid face on your stupid face and have you like it as much as I would.
My phone rings in Dom's pocket, making us both jump. He slides it over to me wordlessly as Maya's name flashes on the screen.
"That reminds me," he says. "Maya called. You need to call her back."
I snort. "Thanks, Dom."
I put Maya on speaker and warn her not to say anything stupid.
"Mr. Blud said you'd call. Why haven't you called?" she demands.
"We're having breakfast," I tell her innocently.
"What happened last night? Don't downplay or sugarcoat. I want the truth."
"Some guys bugged me outside a bar," I say with a pointless shrug. "Dom pulled my ass back from the ledge and took me to his place."
Her voice explodes just as I had anticipated. "What the fuck, Marley? Were you drunk?"
"Kind of," I say.
Dom rolls his eyes at me.
"Okay. Shitfaced. Maybe a bad move on my part, but nothing happened."
"What did they do?" she asks, taking on her stern, maternal voice.
"I guess they tried to abduct me." My throat tightens at the memory. "Tried to put me in their car or something, I don't remember."
"What the fuck, Marley. You need to go to the police."
"Why?" I say defensively. "I was blackout drunk, I don't even think I got a good look at them. Even if I did, I don't remember enough to describe them."
"You know you're not the only one," Maya tells me. "Maybe your silence is the difference between another girl's life and death."
Dom nods slowly along with her words, his eyes down and dark now. "Yeah. What if."
"Okay," I relent. "Maybe you're right."
"Did Yungblud get a good look at them?"
"His name is Dom, you boomer," I correct her, and Dom cracks a smile at this.
Dom. Dominic. What a lovely name.
"It happened fast," he says, "but I think I could give a description."
"Okay. I'll meet you at the station by your place. Cool?"
"Fine. I'll text you when we leave."
"Okay," she agrees.
"Don't wait up," I say, and Maya hangs up on me.