by Kris Ripper
Once we sat down I still had trouble relaxing. “Um.” I fiddled with my napkin. “I hope you don’t have a lot of anxiety in crowds.”
“Only a little. Are you okay, though?”
“Um.”
They leaned forward. “Do you have a lot of anxiety in crowds?”
“Only a little?” I smiled weakly, my stomach churning. “Sorry, did I screw up our first date? We should have gone somewhere else, right?”
“Do you want to leave? We don’t have to stay.”
But it had been my idea and we’d already waited for the table and everything. Plus, it wasn’t all the people so much as it was all the noise. Conversations happening all around us, pots and pans and voices from the kitchen, the music playing not quite loudly enough to identify, the door opening and closing with its little bell. The whole thing was overstimulating.
I took a deep breath, ready to say maybe it’d be best if we left, but suddenly the server was next to us and I...ordered instead. Like my brain abandoned the idea of leaving and decided to forge ahead without my full and active consent.
Sidney shot me another look before also ordering, as if granting one last moment to change my mind. But I didn’t.
I’d expected our first date to be basically easy, at least compared to dates I’d been on with other people. We weren’t strangers. We were already friends. So that should have made the conversation flow easily, right?
Well, it didn’t. The conversation did not flow. Our friendship did not magically alleviate first date weirdness. I felt sorta cheated.
We talked. Obviously. It’s not as if we just sat there staring at each other for the hour it took to get our food and eat it. But I was pushing myself to come up with interesting anecdotes, or interesting questions, and I thought Sidney was doing the same.
Take two people who are into each other, add dating, everything falls apart. What kind of terrible recipe is that? I’d have to call Your Spinster Uncle to figure it out.
The second we got outside The Diner I felt better. The very second the door closed on all that intensity my whole body sort of sighed in relief.
“You all right?” they asked quietly.
I wished they would reach for my arm like they had that one time, when we were eating chocolates. “I’m all right. Sorry. Got overwhelmed or something.”
“I have more work I need to do today, but you could...come over. If you wanted?” They frowned. “Sorry, I don’t know what you’d do while I was working. That’s maybe a terrible idea. Just, I feel like we’ve barely seen each other yet.”
“Me too. Isn’t that bizarre?”
They glanced back at the restaurant. “Maybe not that bizarre.”
“Yeah. I failed us.”
“You did not fail us. But I don’t think we should do another lunch date on a weekend at The Diner.”
“Agreed. Um, I’m not sure what I’ll do if I come over either, but I’d like to. Maybe I’ll stop at the store and buy food to make?”
A corner of their lips lifted. “We just ate.”
“Maybe we need dessert.”
“For lunch?”
I put my hands on my hips. “Are you rejecting my lunch dessert? What kind of monster rejects dessert at any time of day? If you’re anti-dessert, you need to tell me right now, that’s a total dealbreaker.”
“Being anti-dessert, misusing ‘literally,’ and wearing fashion glasses. Let’s remember to discuss this more on Monday.” They smiled. “I’m not anti-dessert at all. I’m pro-dessert. I just think it’s a little awkward if I’ve invited you back to my apartment to make me dessert while I work. That seems strange.”
“I love making food, it’d be my pleasure. Anyway, I’ll be over in a little while, okay? I mean, really, is that okay?”
“Yes. It sounds nice. Not dessert. That too, but I meant seeing you more today.” And oh jeez, Sidney flushing and tripping over their words, hello.
“Yay.” I hesitated. “Um. Kind of... I want to kiss you goodbye? Are we not there yet? Is that a thing?”
“We can make it a thing.” They stepped forward. “See you later, Declan.”
“Yeah. See you later.”
We kissed, with a not-perfunctory lingering that promised good things for the future of kissing. Maybe first kisses were supposed to be the stuff of fireworks, I didn’t know. This wasn’t that. We didn’t thump against the nearest steady object in a haste to get each other’s clothes off or anything. We pressed our lips together and leaned in a bit close and shared a moment like that, long enough for me to watch their eyelashes flutter, long enough for me to wonder how many times I’d see their eyelashes flutter in the future. This kiss made me feel warm and happy and excited to see them later.
I could feel warmth on my cheeks, and see the pinkness in theirs. “So yeah,” I said. “Uh. See you.”
“Yeah.”
We waved—back to awkward—and got into our cars.
I kind of wished I’d kissed them again. But it could have turned into an endless loop of kissing goodbye, saying goodbye, kissing goodbye. We’d been in grave danger of spending our whole day standing in front of The Diner, alternately kissing and saying goodbye. It was probably best that I hadn’t kissed them again.
Later. I could kiss them again later. At least I hoped to.
* * *
Since I didn’t think the toaster oven was up to anything complex, I opted for berries and freshly whipped cream, with a little cinnamon on top. A lot of people are kind of impressed by the fresh whipping of cream, as if whipped cream not from a can is magic. Which it totally isn’t, since it’s literally just cream, sugar, and vanilla beaten to the consistency of your choice.
Or at least it’s supposed to be that straightforward. Since I knew I’d seen a rice cooker in Sidney’s bookcase, I felt confident they must have a mixing device of some kind. Not a stand mixer—even I didn’t have a stand mixer, though I did have stand mixer envy when I used the one in my landlords’ house—but a hand mixer or at least a blender. I should be able to whip cream in a blender. I figured. Surely someone on YouTube had given that a whirl. So to speak.
Except I couldn’t find a blender. Or a hand mixer.
After maybe ten minutes of me poking around in Sidney’s kitchen (after they let me in and we pecked each other hello), I finally gave up on solving the mystery on my own and approached the studio trying to unobtrusively get their attention.
Getting someone’s attention requires being obtrusive. Doing it unobtrusively takes mad skill. Make a note.
They slid their headphones down, eyebrows slightly raised. “Everything okay?”
“You don’t have a mixer, do you?”
“A...mixer. Um. I don’t think so? What does one look like?”
I suppressed a smile. “Okay, do you have a blender?”
“I had one. Then it broke. Sorry, I guess I didn’t use it enough to replace it.”
“It’s totally fine, I just made an assumption. Do you have a whisk?” I almost hoped they’d say no. I could run home for my hand mixer. It’d only take, like, twenty minutes there, twenty minutes back.
“I do have a whisk!” They seemed so delighted to have what I was looking for I didn’t have the heart to run off for something better.
The whisk, once produced, was surprisingly awesome sauce. “Oh wow, I’ve never seen one of these in real life! It’s a cage whisk.”
They bit their lower lip. “Yeah, I found it sort of...compelling. That the little thingie is, um, trapped inside a small cage, and that in itself is trapped inside a larger cage.”
I looked from them to the whisk then back at them. “Huh. Like it’s imprisoned inside the whisk, being forced to whip things forever.”
“But do you think the ball resents being trapped? Or maybe it feels secure in there, snuggly inside of two cages, safe and pr
otected?” They shook their head. “Er, sorry, that’s...weird of me. To come up with a narrative for the ball inside the cage whisk. Anyway, you’re free to use anything. Or to ask me. Really, do whatever you want.” They ducked their head and slunk back to the studio.
Leaving me contemplating the ball inside the cage whisk and its potential feelings about confinement.
I’m...not against confinement myself. For me. Or for others. Confinement can be kinda...hot. I glanced at Sidney, who was very seriously concentrating on their computer. At least I thought they were until their eyes darted up, met mine, then darted down again.
Add Discuss non-culinary applications of confinement with Sidney to my list of things to do.
Right, I had a job. And that job was hand-whipping cream.
At least I had the right tool.
I giggled again, plastering my hand over my mouth.
“Oh my god, why are you laughing? Are you laughing at my caged ball theory?”
“No! No. Um. My mind went to...other places with it.”
“My mind did too.”
“Like...bondagey places?” Because probably this wasn’t a thing you wanted to assume. Assuming someone was into restraints would be even worse than assuming they had a hand mixer.
“Er, yes?”
I flapped my hands at them. “Goody, we should talk about that later. But you’re editing and I’m making whipped cream.”
“You are? What, all by yourself?”
“I don’t have a whipped cream minion I keep shackled in my—you know, now everything’s going to the bondage place.”
“Whipped cream minion,” they repeated. “Shackled whipped cream minion.”
I waggled my eyebrows. “I’ll be your shackled whipped cream minion anytime, baby.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Thank you, thank you, I’m here all night.” Oh shit, that sounded bad. “I mean not all night! I mean as long as you want me to be! I mean—”
They laughed and slid their headphones back into place.
I melodramatically banged my head against the counter a few times, hoping they were still watching and amused.
Then I got to work.
Was this still part of our first date? Because it was way better than sitting in a loud restaurant trying to have stilted “first date” conversation. I prepped strawberries, raspberries, and peaches while letting the cream chill in the freezer with a medium-sized metal mixing bowl for a few minutes. Then I loaded the fruit into the fridge and busted out the cage whisk.
“It is a pleasure to whisk with you,” I whispered. “I look forward to whisking with you in the future.” And oh, sweet slutty salamanders, that was some incredible freaking whisking. Hot damn.
Never has hand-whisking cream gone so quickly. Don’t get me wrong, I still entered into it with my heart full of doubt (alas, our cultural reliance on mechanisms to do work for us, tsk tsk, insert solemn headshake about the state of the world). I made the cream vanilla-heavy and sugar-light, as my personal preference, but left it soft enough that I could add more sugar if Sidney preferred it sweeter. Which meant I needed them to taste it. I took the bowl (which, okay, I was proud of; even with a cage whisk, hand mixing is not for the faint of heart, though it could be argued I hadn’t needed to whip quite so much cream) and a clean spoon and presented them to Sidney with a flourish.
Grinning, they dipped the spoon and lifted it to their lips.
I saw it. The moment they realized what they were tasting and how delicious it was. They started going back in with the spoon, but I snatched it away. “Nope nope nope, no germs. Is that sweet enough for you or should I add more sugar?”
“It’s incredible. Why don’t people make whipped cream if it tastes that good? That’s way better than the stuff in the store.”
“I have no idea. It’s super easy. I mean, it’s terribly hard and I have labored endlessly to bring you this bite of heaven.”
They laughed. “I appreciate your labors, my little whipped cream minion. Can I have ten more minutes to finish this segment? Then I’m all yours.” Blink. “Er...for dessert. Or, no, that’s even more suggestive.”
There was something so damn charming about Sidney trying to backtrack out of an accidental innuendo. They frowned, like it was a puzzle they couldn’t quite solve. “Anyway, do you mind waiting for ten more minutes?”
“Not at all. The cream will keep. I’ll meet you at the armchairs in ten.”
“Thank you.”
I bowed low over my bowl of whipped cream. “At your service.” When I rose out of my bow, they were looking at me. Intently. “Um?”
“Nothing. Sorry. Working now.” Headphones on, deliberate turn back to the computer.
Mental note: get Sidney to look at me so intently I feel naked again. That was hot. I shook off the lingering twinges of, well, okay, something like arousal, but anyway, I shook it off and went to plate the fruit in preparation for our lunch dessert.
Plated, ready to go, cinnamon shaker standing by. By the time I was done cleaning, ten minutes had passed and a glance toward the studio seemed to indicate Sidney was wrapping up too. The lack of table area was a little stressful, but I made do by putting each bowl in an empty spot at the edge of the desk.
Then I...sat there. In a chair. And waited.
“I’m the worst,” they murmured. “Sorry, I’m done. Let me just...”
I hadn’t brought a book or anything, but I figured they wouldn’t mind if I looked at their books. There was a low bookshelf running under the desk, next to the chairs. (Sidney could give a class in organizing small apartments, it was super impressive how much stuff they managed to fit in their place without it feeling cluttered.)
A few graphic design books, a lot of filming books, a handful of small business books. A tiny corner of mystery novels. I was still poking through when they clicked off their monitor.
“I’m really sorry. I should know that if I think something’s going to take ten minutes, it’ll probably take twice that. I hope dessert isn’t messed up?”
“Nope. The cinnamon’s less crisp, but it’s kind of a cool look when it gets all saturated and blurry, and it’s definitely not going to affect the flavor.” I handed them their bowl when they’d sat down. “Do you need time to decompress before, like, talking and stuff?”
They went very still. “Actually...that would be amazing. Is that all right?”
“Totally all right.”
“Thank you.”
I grabbed one of the books I’d been looking at—about making short films—and paged through it. I didn’t want to start eating without them, but I didn’t want them to feel a bunch of pressure to be on, either. And I sort of love picking up a book on a subject I’ve never even considered before and learning about it. I’m kind of a nerd for random stuff.
The book had pretty well absorbed my attention by the time Sidney spoke. “That’s the first filming book I ever bought myself.”
“It’s really interesting.”
“It is?”
“Hell yes. Like, how lighting influences narrative? I never even considered that.”
They smiled. “Yeah, isn’t it fascinating? Because it’s also about how the brain processes stories, all the things your brain is taking into account without you consciously realizing it.”
“Exactly!” I surrendered the book back to its place on the shelf. “I should have read that before planning our faildate this morning and I would have known that The Diner at noon on Saturday was not the right soundtrack for our date.”
“We are not calling it a ‘faildate.’”
“Oh yes we are.” I straightened up. “Excuse me, I am the subject of The Love Study, and I can refer to my dates however I want.”
They chewed on that for a moment, an unwilling smile tugging up their lips. “I feel like I should
be able to argue with that as the other person on the date, but as the facilitator of The Love Study I have to concede you’re right.”
“Thank you,” I said primly. “Shall we dessert?”
“We certainly shall. I’ve never thought about how ‘breakfast’ is the only meal word you can use as a verb. You think that’s because it’s basically a contraction including a verb?”
“Maybe?” I gave it some thought. “Can you use ‘supper’ as a verb? I didn’t grow up in a ‘supper’ family so I don’t know how it works.”
“I think you can ‘sup.’”
Ten really dumb jokes tripped on the tip of my tongue. “It’s taking a lot of self-control not to make any ridiculous puns right now.”
“If I could come up with a good pun about your lack of punning, I’d use it.” Their expression got serious. “Declan. You don’t have to withhold your puns from me. I accept you no matter how punny you are.”
I leaned forward. “I think you’re going to regret saying that. Except now I’m punless. What if your acceptance has robbed me of the ability to pun?”
“Mmm, yes.” They stroked their, like, five whiskers. “I have heard of such cases. The Pun Cure, it is called. Only those derided for their pun-making can truly embrace their puntastic identity.”
We looked at each other like total goofballs for a full ten seconds. Then we laughed.
“I can’t believe you’ve stolen my superpower.” I handed them their dessert (again).
“I hope this doesn’t hurt your feelings, but I don’t think of you as particularly into puns. Have you been holding back?”
“Well, when I was a teenager I thought puns were legit hilarious and clever. It was pointed out to me in college—when I acquired friends who were, you know, honest with me—that my relentless punning wasn’t that funny. So I curbed the undesirable behavior. Mostly.” I would have kept talking except they had taken a bite of peaches and cream and I could tell they were no longer listening.
“Ohhhhhhh.” Was that a moan? I hadn’t ever made Sidney moan before (yet, anyway), but that sure sounded like a moan. “This is...this is so...” They ate another bite, with a slice of strawberry. “Oh wow. This is...words can’t even do it justice.”