Flirtasaurus

by Erin Mallon

  “That does help, actually! Thank you for sharing that. You know the other thing about the word boob that burns me?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s synonymous with idiot.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yeah! That was my mom’s main insult for people she perceived to be idiots. ‘Don’t mind him; he’s a boob!’ Oh, and the TV! She called it the boob tube. ‘Will you kids stop watching the boob tube and go outside to play? It’s going to rot your brain.’ In other words... make you an idiot. But there’s nothing idiotic about these babies,” I say while looking down at my chest even though he obviously can’t see them, “boobs or breasts or whatever you wanna call them. Hey, while we’re at it, can we discuss the word pussy?”

  “We absolutely can.”

  “People also use the word pussy as an insult. ‘That guy is such a pussy.’”

  “Do you always make yourself sound like a doofus when you’re impersonating a guy?”

  “Only when it’s warranted, which it usually is. Present company excluded, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Yeah, people use the word pussy to mean weak, lame, afraid… but the actual pussy is none of those things. It’s strong. Powerful. Worthy of celebration.”

  “I absolutely agree.”

  We fall into silence.

  Our first bit of silence the entire night.

  Maybe I finally took things too far with the pussy talk? But somehow, I don’t think so. This guy truly seems up for anything.

  “Well,” I say on an exhale.

  “Well,” he responds.

  “Would you like to…?” We both speak at the same time.

  “No, you go,” he says with a laugh.

  “No, you.” I chuckle.

  “I’d like to take you on a real date.”

  “You would?”

  “I would,” he says matter-of-factly.

  “When?”

  “Ah, she said yes!” He gloats.

  “Technically, I said ‘when,’ but… yes.”

  My cheeks are starting to hurt from so much smiling. I’m almost certain he can hear them through the phone.

  “How about Sunday? We can make a day out of it. I’ll show you the city.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You’ll show me the city? I grew up here, Nebraska boy.”

  “Didn’t you say you grew up ‘right outside of the city?’”

  “Yeah,” I say with a solid amount of snark. “Everyone who is ‘from Philly’ grew up ‘right outside of the city.’”

  “That obviously can’t be a factual statement, but I’ll let it slide for now. Maybe you do know more about the city than I do, but after watching you in action this week, I’m guessing not.”

  “And how did you come to that conclusion, sir?”

  “You just don’t seem to make a lot of room in your life for fun. When was the last time you explored the city like a tourist?”

  “Gosh, I don’t know. Fifth-grade field trip to the Liberty Bell?”

  “Ugh, the Liberty Bell sucks.”

  “Yes! I say that all the time! The Liberty Bell sucks!”

  “I mean, I can certainly appreciate what it represents,” he continues, “but who wants to wait in a long line to see a huge cracked bell that doesn’t even ring anymore?”

  “Dude, you are so speaking my language right now!”

  “Alright, it’s settled then. Sunday. Philly Day. You and me. I’ll plan everything. And we definitely skip The Liberty Bell.”

  “Didn’t you say you’ve only been living here a few months? How do you know enough to plan everything?”

  “I’ve been paying attention. Exploring as much as I can on my days off.” His tone shifts a bit as he says, “A city is like a beautiful woman, you know.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I laugh. “And how is a city like a beautiful woman?”

  “You have to spend time getting to know her before she opens up and lets you see who she really is.”

  Okay.

  It’s official. I’m swooning. Also official? Ralph Anderson has game. But here’s the thing. He doesn’t actually play games. Nope. He’s just this pure, open, beating heart of a man. A pure, open, beating heart of a man who happens to be contained in a sexy-as-all-hell body.

  “You there?” His voice comes through the phone.

  “Yup,” I breathe. “I’m here.”

  “What was it you wanted to ask me?”

  “Hmm?” I have no idea what he’s talking about. My brain is all over the place right now.

  “Before. When we interrupted each other. You wanted to know ‘if I wanted to…’”

  “Oh. Right. Forget it.”

  “Yeah, I’m not going to forget it,” he says on a light laugh.

  “Of course you won’t,” I mumble. “Alright. Well. Listen, this is probably a dumb idea, and you can totally say no, but apparently, I am chaperoning at the museum sleepover next Saturday night.”

  “You?”

  “Yes, me! Why is that surprising?”

  “I dunno, after observing your Dino Diggers session, you just don’t seem to be much of a kid person.”

  “I love kids! Alright, I… tolerate kids. But those little Dino Digger goobers are growing on me. And anyway, we don’t have to do much. The kids all come to the sleepover with a parent or guardian. The museum just needs a few more staff members to be there to oversee things, answer questions… that sort of thing.”

  “I’d love to.”

  “I didn’t ask you anything yet.”

  “You’re asking me to have a sleepover with you.”

  “Well, I don’t know that I’d phrase it that way, but—”

  “I’d love to.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Ooh, he’s talking smack again! Look at him! I love it when he talks smack!”

  Ralph laughs and sips on his overpriced but hella refreshing beer. I’m knocking one back too. We’re sitting in a packed stadium with a perfect view of home base, and I am getting an absolute kick out of watching the Phillies catcher trying to psych out the Yankees player up at bat.

  “Man, I haven’t been to a baseball game since I was a kid,” I say as I look up at the rows and rows of fans in red, speckled with the occasional brave spectator dressed in navy blue.

  “Well, I’m glad we could remedy that,” Ralph says between sips.

  “It’s so much more theatrical than I remember it being! Such drama!”

  “You think? Most people would tell you that baseball is on the slower side.”

  “Sure, the actual progression of the game is kind of slow, but that just gives you time to check out all the behind-the-scenes action. Like that! Look! He’s stealing a base! He’s gonna steal it! Go, dude, go! Aw damn, they got him.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be supporting your home team?” Ralph laughs and puts his arm around me.

  He’s been doing things like that off and on throughout the day, and I have to admit that I love it. Slipping his fingers through mine while we walked down Boathouse Row, rubbing my shoulders while waiting in line for ice cream cones at Bassetts. Every time he touches me, I only want him to touch me more.

  “Oh, I totally support the home team, but I one hundred percent appreciate that guy’s chutzpah.”

  We’re quiet for a moment while we take in the game. I enjoy the feel of the warm breeze on my skin. I watch it blow the shaggy brown locks of his hair.

  I find myself wanting to trace the line of his profile with my fingers, letting them linger on his pillowy lips. But I don’t because that would be weird. Right?

  “So,” I say. “I tried to act all cool and blasé when we first walked in, but holy shit, these seats are amazing! How did you get these? Wait a second. Are you one of those secret rich guys
who acts all down to earth, but then when I go to your apartment for the first time, I suddenly learn that you live in a massive penthouse overlooking the entire city skyline with floor-to-ceiling windows, all-leather and metal furniture, a sleek, stocked bar with the world’s finest whiskey collection, and a walk-in closet filled to the brim with tailored ten-thousand-dollar suits?”

  He laughs. “Uh, no. I live in a studio apartment in a fourth-floor walk-up. And I thought we already covered the fact that my ‘bar’ consists of the $29.99 RASKOG Utility ‘rolly’ cart from IKEA filled with a few bottles of Goldschläger.”

  “You even know the name of the thing? Yeah, that atrocity needs to go.”

  “Noted. Kidding about the Goldschläger, by the way.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  “But listen, Calliope.” He gets really close to me and lowers his voice so only I can hear. “I didn’t realize you were so eager to come over to my apartment. All you have to do is say the word and—”

  “Alright, wise guy, I didn’t say I was—”

  “You’re welcome at my place anytime,” he says, punctuating his words with a gentle, quick kiss to my lips. I feel that butterfly sensation in my belly that everyone seems to talk about, but I’d never felt until now.

  We’re still super close, and I want to get closer, but because I’m me… I break the moment.

  “FYI, I’m about to down a second hot dog with full fixings right before your very eyes.”

  “I figured you were. Why else would we have bought it?”

  He reaches for his own food and takes a bite.

  “I’m just warning you because I don’t want to hear smack about how a lady is supposed to eat or any other nonsense like that.”

  “Lady, you eat whatever the hell you want. And for the record, any guy comments on your eating habits? He needs to go. Oh fuck me, this is good.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry,” he says after taking another bite of his cheesesteak. “This is just effing delicious.”

  “Not that I’m judging, but didn’t you say you were a vegan?”

  “Yeah, but you can’t have a Philly day and not have a cheesesteak!”

  “Your cow friends may disagree with that assessment.”

  “Relax, it’s Questlove’s cheesesteak sandwich made with plant-based Impossible Meat.”

  “Ew.”

  “Questlove rules!” He sounds truly offended.

  “Agreed! Questlove is a Philadelphia—if not a national—treasure, but a meatless cheesesteak? Bleh.”

  “Oh, you gotta try it. I’m telling you, it kicks Pat’s and Geno’s collective asses.”

  “Them’s fighting words in this town!”

  “So I’ve heard. Regardless, I stand by them. Here, take a bite.”

  So I do.

  Leaning over, I nibble on his neck. He smells like soap and the tiniest hint of sweat.

  Ralph responds right away with a gravelly sound in the back of his throat and a warm hand cradling the back of my neck. He draws me closer to him.

  I guess he found a safe place to set down his cheesesteak because suddenly, both of his hands are in my hair, and he’s kissing me.

  I totally lose myself in him. In the rough brush of the stubble on his cheeks against mine. The way his full bottom lip fits perfectly beneath my upper. The way we seem to be breathing completely in sync. I forget that we’re in public. That people can see us. That I probably shouldn’t be getting this attached to him.

  The people around us start cheering and jostling us. I swear the guy to my right even jabs me in the ribs with his elbow. I’m about to get annoyed at the interruption and give this dude a piece of my mind, until Ralph pulls away and says with excitement, “Callie, look up!”

  I direct my gaze skyward, and there we are, up on the kiss cam, looking shy and red-faced and… happy. We do. We look ridiculously happy.

  And with the whole stadium watching this time, we kiss again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It’s the night of the museum sleepover, and Otto and I are in the cafeteria, stuffing goody bags for the kids and parents who will be arriving in just a few hours.

  “You know what I realized the other day, Otto?”

  “What’s that, kid?” he says after a sip from the trusty thermos he always has with him.

  “We’ve been dunching together for over a week now. You’ve been sketching while I’ve been writing every chance we get, and… you’ve never touched me. Not a handshake, a high five, a back slap, nothin’.”

  “That’s exactly right. And I never will.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “You millennial ‘me too-ers’ scare the shit out of me.”

  “Oh, come on, are you serious?”

  “Deadly serious, yes. I’m not touching another woman as long as I live unless I have a signed consent form in place.”

  “Dude, that’s ridiculous! And if we want to get technical, I believe I am at the tippy top of Gen Z, but who the hell knows. I don’t really follow that stuff.”

  “Well, either way, I’m not taking any chances.”

  “Are you sure you’re not a ghost?”

  “What the hell are you talking about, kid?”

  “Well, usually in books and movies and television mini-series and stuff, when there’s an old, mysterious guy lurking around an establishment and no one has ever touched him, it gets revealed later that he’s been a ghost the whole time. Tell me, dude, are you a ghost?”

  “Ha, I don’t think so. Last I checked, I’m still here.”

  “Thank goodness for that.”

  “Aw. What? Do you like hanging out with me or something, kid?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I guess I do.”

  “The feeling is mutual, but nah, I have no need to have physical contact of any kind with any woman ever again.”

  “Never been much of a touchy-feely guy then?”

  “Oh, hell no. I screwed like a rabbit in the sixties and seventies. I was the touchiest-feeliest of them all!”

  “Oh, good! I mean, I don’t care if you… It’s just that from what I understand, it’s important for people to—”

  “Ah, those were the days, weren’t they?” He looks wistful as if he’s visualizing something. “Fucking fantastic. But after my wife passed…”

  “Your wife passed? I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. A few years ago, yeah. So. After my wife passed, I found myself in a whole new world where you could no longer squeeze an ass without consent, lest you be arrested.”

  “Well, that’s as it should be, don’t you think?”

  “Is it, though?”

  “Take it from a woman. Yes. It is. Also, I hate the word lest. Reminds me of molest.”

  “You see that there? That kind of thinking is why I’ll never touch ya.”

  “Oh come on, you have my consent to give me like a… a fist bump!”

  I hold out my fist to him, and he recoils like I’m trying to burn him.

  “Nah, I’m not falling for that. I need a witness.”

  “Fine. By the way, thank you for filling in tonight. My friend Sasha ended up having to help out at an event for her dad’s liquor company, so…”

  “Sure. What else was I going to do? And I’ll try not to take offense that I wasn’t your first choice.”

  “Well, now that I know you’re game for things like this, I’ll ask you again. As my first choice next time.”

  “Sounds good, kid.”

  Just then, Mabel flutters in, looking a bit of a flustered mess.

  “Hi. Hi. Hi, hi, hi, hi. I’m so sorry I’m late, Calliope. I was so honored that you’d ask me to help, and I was absolutely planning on being here on time. Even early, in fact! But then my boyfriend just sprung this last-minute early dinner on me with his pare
nts, and I was expected to be there, and then it went long, and I had to find a polite way to leave, and it turned into this whole big thing and—”

  “Whoa, whoa, slow down, Mabel. Breathe. Chill. It’s okay.”

  “It is? It’s okay?”

  “Of course. No problem at all. We’re just finishing up these goody bags, and then we’re going to go greet people as they come in. You’re totally fine. Thanks for being here. Ralph is still on his way too.”

  Also… Mabel has a boyfriend? What on earth must that relationship look like?

  “Okay, great. I’m so relieved. Hi, Otto.”

  “Hey, buggy.”

  “Aw, I love when you call me buggy.”

  “Hey, Mabel,” I ask, “has Otto ever touched you?”

  “Nope. Otto ‘has no need to have physical contact of any kind with any woman ever again.’”

  “Alrighty then. I guess that’s official.”

  “Hey, guys.”

  “Hi, Ralph!” Mabel says, her near-perpetual cheer back in place.

  Ralph enters, looking delicious, his hair damp like he’s come straight from a shower. He approaches the table where we’re sitting and automatically leans down like he’s going to kiss me before he realizes what he’s doing and freezes. In a ridiculous position. With his ass pushed back and his head tipped forward, he looks like the kid who performed the role of the nutcracker every year when I was a kid.

  It's been a pretty awesome almost two weeks getting to know this guy. Stolen kisses after work. Talking on the phone until late each night. The other day, he even invited me to his apartment for dinner. That’s right; the man cooked for me.

  But up until now, we’ve never slipped while on the museum grounds. I wonder what came over him?

  Mabel and Otto stare at Ralph, who is still hovering over me like a pocketknife. Then he stands up straight, stretches, and yawns. Loudly. Like a bear coming out of hibernation. Real smooth, dude.

  Otto stifles a knowing laugh. I opt to act like this is completely normal behavior, but we’re not fooling anyone at this moment. Actually, we may be fooling Mabel, but I’ve learned that’s pretty easy to do.

  “You okay, Ralph?” Mabel asks sweetly. “Bad back?”