Knickers

Good Old Spray Cheese

I had felt the urge to dress up, an inexplicable urge that I feel close to never. When Dom picks me up twenty minutes late I find that I'm grateful for the extra time, and my inclination to doll myself up was a good move. I hadn't ever imagined what Dom might look like in a coordinated outfit that's not his little black dress, but seeing him now heats my core.
It's a tiny little pleated skirt and fishnets, with a fine mesh shirt and full makeup. He looks lovely. I'm dying to touch him.
We stop at the nearest In-N-Out, our moods elevated in the other's company. His car is an automatic, so his free arm links with mine over the center console for the duration of the ride. We park in the lot of the adjacent grocery store since the Friday night pregamers hit up In-N-Out before beginning their weekend shenanigans. Their cars surround the restaurant, pumping hip hop songs from their speakers.
The walk to the front doors is articulated with the murmuring chatter of groups sitting against their cars, sipping spiked sodas and letting tipsy giggles mingle with the rumble of excitement of Friday night.
The line is obscene, but of course it passes in an instant with the pleasant distractions Dom provides. Our arms remain hooked together, even as we lean against the central planters while waiting for our food.
"I don't know." He bites his lip. "I guess I would lose a toe before I'd give up a finger."
"Balance means that little to you?"
"I play guitar for a living," he says, grinning, "and my balance is shit even with all ten toes."
"Fair enough. Your turn."
He purses his lips, squinting at me in thought. "Would you rather give up sweets...or crisps?"
"Crisps. They're just a British mispronunciation."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Chips. They're called chips."
"How long are you going to deny your American ignorance?" he asks me sweetly, leaving an idle kiss on my knuckles.
"As long as I live, like a true patriot." I kiss his knuckles in return. "Would you rather be an Aussie or an American?"
"Aussie, no doubt. The American accent is just too weird. Why so nasal?"
"But our slang is kickass."
"Wrong. Why is 'rubber' slang for condom and not eraser? And who the fuck decided to put cheese in a can?"
"A hero," I say, nodding knowingly. "We don't need antidepressants or a full night of sleep, just good old spray cheese."
"Oh," he pouts sympathetically. "I hope you live to see thirty."
"You live here too, asshole."
Our number is called then, and both of us wordlessly refuse to untangle our arms as we gather our order. We're bored of our game by the time we return to the car. We pop the trunk and dangle our legs out of the back as we eat, pausing only when two teenagers ask me to take photos of them with Yungblud. He's very sweet and gentle with them, which of course softens me so much that I can only hug him and hold on once the teens leave.
"You're addicted, aren't you?" he murmurs into my shoulder. "I should have warned you, my hugs are habit-forming."
My god, they are. We've broken the cuddle barrier now, and some subdued part of my mind is counting the moments until we can reunite that way. Did he think it was strange? Was it casual for him? Was it a message or a sign that I overlooked?
"I'm down for another milkshake if you are," I say, silencing my thoughts with more conversation.
"What, you want to give me a sugar rush? I'll be buzzing."
"We'll light a dumpster on fire or something to compensate." I extend my elbow toward him. "Down or not down?"
He links his arm with mine once more, grinning wide with a French fry pinched between his teeth. "Sugar me."
We begin our needlessly long walk all over again, as the parking lot has emptied somewhat by now and we could have easily moved the car closer to the restaurant, but I think there's an unspoken agreement that we like the quiet moments between the lot lamps where there's only darkness and soft acceptance.
In these moments, there's courage I haven't felt anywhere else. I think now might be the time to tell him my epiphany. Maya would be proud, and I want to make her proud as much as I want to ease my incessant cravings.
"You know, Dom," I begin, inhaling a tense breath, "I've had an amazing time since I met you. Like, really amazing."
He nods once in agreement. "Me, too."
"You should, you know, know that," I say, pulling nervously at the pendant on my necklace. "I have a lot to thank you for. And, well, because of that—"
Something clanks against Dom's back, a sound so out of place that it startles us both. A crushed beer can bounces to the asphalt below. We turn, finding two young men perched against the railing of the cart return, barely visible in the dark parking lot. Among our dim surroundings I can distinguish only one or two discernible features: one of them is stick thin, and the other lacks a shirt.
"Nice skirt," says the thin one. "Faggot."
"Fuck off," I say back instinctively.
They laugh at my response.
"You let her fight your battles for you?" the shirtless one asks. "Yeah, that makes sense."
"They're drunk," I tell Dom, pulling on his wrist.
They hop off the cart return and approach, shoulders squared and chests puffed outward in some pathetic intimidation tactic.
"Maybe I didn't like their comment," Dom says, detaching my wrist. "It's the twenty-first fucking century."
He meets them halfway, both fists clenched. He opens his mouth to say something else, but the shirtless one doesn't let him. He swings, hitting Dom square in the face and knocking him onto his back.
I yelp in reaction, covering my mouth with my hands. The skinny one barks out a laugh at me, swinging his leg to kick Dom in the shoulder.
The scene flips my stomach, blurring my vision in rage. I reach into my bag that hangs at my hip and reveal my silly bedazzled pepper spray, a Christmas gift from my mother that I hadn't bothered to carry since the bar incident. The skinny one winds up for another kick, but I dive at him, shoving him backward with one hand and pepper spraying him with the other. The momentum topples him backwards, sending him crashing down to the asphalt. The shirtless one pays no mind to the downfall of his friend; he's bent over Dom, laughing in his face, both hands braced on his knees for extra belittlement.
Despite my occasional temper, I've never been more angry, more inclined to violence, in my life. I curl both arms around his exposed waist and yank him away from Dom and fling him to the ground. In his disorientation, I straddle him and free him of his belt, made useless by his too-tight jeans. I fold it once and wind up, whipping it across his face with such force that it leaves a deep welt. In any other case I would show restraint, maybe reference an action movie, but such a blatant violation has left me in a dazed fury.
Before I know it I've left several welts, crisscrossing on his face, stopped only when the skinny one yanks me onto my back by my shoulders and pulls his friend to his feet. They bolt then, clumsily sprinting off into the darkness side by side, and I'm half inclined to chase them down, but Dom appears at my side on his knees, gripping my hand in his.
"You alright?" he asks me, cupping his eye.
"Fine," I say. "God, Dom, I'm sorry that happened. Does it hurt?"
"I'm fine," he says.
With delicate fingers I remove his hand from his face, finding a red patch on his cheek just beneath his lower lid.
"Oh my god," I say, coasting a thumb over it. "Did he hit your eye? Can you see?"
"I'm fine," he assures me again, resting his palm on my arm as I prod gently at the mark.
"We should ice it," I say to him, inspecting the rest of his face for injury.
He lifts his elbow then, revealing a large scrape on his upper forearm from his spill on the ground. He chuckles lightly at this.
"Twins," he says.
"Right," I say, my heart still thundering from the altercation. "Do you have your first aid kit?"
"It's in my bathroom," he admits. "I'm fine, really."
"Come on," I tell him, pulling us both to our feet. "Let me fuss over you the way you did over me."
He smiles at this. "Alright. That sounds nice."
We walk together back to the car, and because of the proximity to my apartment we decide to go there. While I drive I wonder if it's adequately clean, but I dismiss my insecurity. It's more important to make sure he's cared for, of course.
He chirps out a compliment once he sees the interior of my apartment, loudly appreciating the details of my haphazard decorating. I seat him on my bed to gather up some first aid equipment, delivering an ice pack first for him to hold to his face. Then I disinfect his wound and bandage it, exactly as he's done for me more than once.
The lighting in my apartment has never been great; the place came with a shabby yellow lamp that flickers after five minutes of use and nothing else. Because of that I hung a cute neon sign on one wall the shape of a cloud, bright pink and surprisingly ambient. It turns his skin and teeth rosy as he quips various remarks of praise about this or that.
"It's nice to return the favor, finally," I say, smoothing down the adhesive over his skin. "Feels like you've done an awful lot of taking care of me recently."
"Well, I like taking care of people," he says innocently. "Especially you."
His arm remains in my hands as I needlessly trace his dark arm hair down to his wrist and back up again. His skin is warm and soft, his nails short and his hands adorned with heart tattoos and heavy rings.
"Cause I'm a mess?" I ask, grazing my index finger over his fresh bandage.
"Well, yeah," he agrees. "That's my favorite thing about you, though, that we can be a mess together. Like, one big mess."
"There's solidarity in that," I say. "A solidarity like I haven't found anywhere else."
He nods slowly along with my words, catching my hand in his and tangling our fingers together. "I've been avoiding a question," he says. "What made you leave my party so suddenly? It's been on my mind."
"Nothing, really," I say, entranced by his low, humming voice. "Just me, overthinking."
He holds my gaze despite the tension building in my throat.
"Overthinking about what?" he asks.
"You," I say. "You, being way too cool for me."
"Don't be silly," he says, dragging the ice down and off his face.
"No, I'm serious. You're gentle, and funny, and talented. Progressive. Open minded. Wild and fun. And me," I inhale slowly, "I'm a drunk."
"Marley, don't do this. I'm not the best with words right now." He reaches up to tuck away a loose strand of my hair, trailing his fingers tenderly down to my chin. "You're sweet, y'know, and just brilliant, and such a fucking laugh. And beautiful."
"I don't think I—"
"Wrong," he breathes, tilting my face upward. "Wrong, wrong, wrong. You're all that and more."
"Wrong," I return.
"Wrong," he echoes.
His eyes fall half shut, and in a moment we've drawn each other in, mingling soft breaths as we share a long, silky kiss that steals my breath away.
He pulls away slightly, separating us by a centimeter.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I should have asked."
"Fuck it," I return, crashing us together again, sloppy and ungraceful but deeply satisfying.
His hand cups my jaw and pulls me closer, curling one arm around my waist and inching me into his lap. His touch is irresistible as it moves too slowly up and down my thigh, fingering the hem of my shirt. One of my hands finds its way to his hair, curling my fingers, toppling us both down onto the blankets.
Reality escapes me. His tongue grazes my teeth, his fingers glide against my lower back. I sigh, straddling him, fisting one hand in the front of his shirt.
He pinches the sides of my top, tugging upward ever so slightly.
"Marley," he whispers,"can I?"
It registers then, I still haven't told him how I feel. It seems so wrong to risk this miscommunication, like having a mismatched understanding of our tryst would ruin absolutely everything.
All it would take is one short utterance.
"Dom," I say.
Out with it, Marley, fucking out with it.
Words fail me, of course.
How do I tell him that I see him tonight, and many, many more nights in the future? How do I ask for an unambiguous romance? I want to scold him for his casual affection, for forcing me to ask if his constant outpour of love is platonic or not.
This vulnerability is all new, and it silences me. I want him so badly it gnaws at me, but the possibility of rejection still hangs in the air. I would hate for one of my hookups to drop an 'I love you' bomb.
It rests on my tongue. But I can't say it.
"It's alright," he murmurs, with the softest smile I've ever seen.
"I'm sorry," I tell him, trying not to choke on all this goddamn sentimentality. "You just mean so much to me, Dom."
"I understand," he says, patting the tops of my thighs. "You mean the same to me."
He turns, easing me onto the bed, and curls us up again. Neither of us want to move after he does this, so we don't, and we fall asleep as a tangled mass, happier than ever.