Andy, You're a Star
He knows of only one way to dress: snappy.
And appropriate. His time at Cornell had taught him how to dress appropriately, because people dressed inappropriately often had bad things happen to them.
(wedgies, publicly posted pictures, taped to the ceiling, locked outside naked, police called, parents called)
He doesn't go so far as to wear a tie, since those are for formal occasions and work occasions, but everything else he wears declares that he is a gentleman. When one is out with a lady, one must present himself as a gentleman.
But for just this time, Andy is dialing it back a notch or two. It's just a button-up and sweater-vest tonight, even though he knows the vest will be too hot later on, but it will not do to dress like a ragamuffin (except under special circumstances, like casual Fridays or company picnics).
"Appearance," he says quietly as he looks in the mirror and straightens his collar. "Appearance is the first thing a woman sees." And so it is the most important thing. Deeming his collar is in good position, he gathers his things for the evening.
It's not a lot; he's not one of those greasy haired, narcissistic Syracuse fellows. It's something of a disservice to bother comparing a Big East team to the far superior Big Red, but he's had run-ins with Syracuse guys before. They are not a friendly bunch.
Cornell. Ever heard of it?
You're a faggot.
No, not friendly at all.
But there's his phone, his keys, his wallet, folded wad of small bills. Andy is as ready as he'll ever be. It's been a while since he's been on a date that the woman agreed to so readily. As he's about to put his wallet in his pocket, he pauses.
His eyes linger on the drawer of the nightstand. One can never be too prepared, right?
She smiles brightly at him. "Hi!"
He gives her a half bow, then holds out his arm. "Shall we remove ourselves to dinner?" Then he kicks himself; he is supposed to be holding back.
But without a second word, she puts her arm through his.
Things are going better than expected already! But he's still a little disappointed he didn't get her flowers like he first thought about.
"Did you have someplace in mind already?" she asks as they walk to his car (washed earlier, with a new air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror).
Here is the first test, not that he is testing her. It's more of a 'hold his breath and hope it's not going to be a huge chore to find a place to eat something that will actually fill his stomach' quiz. "Farley's. Have you heard of it?"
But dinner is a quiet affair. She doesn't eat much, three quarters of her barbecued chicken, but he doesn't hold it against her because she tried his New York strip. Any lady that can appreciate steak is A-OK in his book.
He holds himself to one glass of beer (in a glass, not a bottle) because he's driving, and he can't really afford any more traffic stops; he thinks those road rage citations are probably still hanging over his head.
There's very little talking, and before he is ready for it, they're leaving, but her arm is through his again as they return to his car. It brings a hint of blush to his cheeks, though he's not totally sure why. "So have you ever heard of Cornell?" he asks, and feels immediately embarrassed for such an irrelevant question at the moment.
"Sure."
"Ah." He smiles, but has nothing else to say about it. "I went to Cornell." Maybe he does. "Wouldn't go anywhere else if I had the chance. My family is from a long line of WASPs."
"Oh. I don't mind bees, but I don't really like wasps," she says, sounding just the tiniest bit concerned.
"That's not what..." He shakes his head, his eyebrows furrowing. "That's not the kind of wasp I'm talking about." The frustration bubbles up, all charity about Cornell and steak forgotten.
Dial it back a notch
"It's not important," he says quickly, and in the long run he knows it's not.
"When I was little, the back porch had wasp nests all along the eves."
"Did you get stung?"
"No, but I was always scared I might."
Now he can't help but exhale in frustration. How did they get to this point, talking about wasps? It's completely meaningless, pathetic small talk. No, it's less than small talk. It's the type of talk you exchange when you don't want to speak to the other person. "Hey," he says brightly, flipping his entire demeanor in an instant, "I thought we could go back to that same place."
And she nods enthusiastically. "They had good music."
She is drinking, not heavily, but enough to make her very bubbly, very happy, very flirtatious. Luckily she keeps her attention on him, or he might have to defend her honor, and he really doesn't want to do that. He's not a fighter, not really. Some might say otherwise, but they'd be wrong, and then he'd have to defend his own honor, which would defeat the purpose of it in the first place.
Defending one's honor is very complicated.
He can't think about it anyway, because she is tugging on his hand, pulling him away from the table and to the dance floor. He can't help but wonder if this will be a repeat of last time.
With luck, he hopes.
The vest is long abandoned, and his shirt is open three buttons down. There are some other guys there he considers excellent dancers, so observes, and now mimics. It's invigorating to be dancing so close while so... physically. It's darn near PG-13 rated, and quickly ramping up as the evening turns into night.
She continues to drink, nothing heavy, and is at a state of inebriation he hasn't seen her in (he's been there before, and it has never lead to anything good, but he's never been that way while dancing). It's something brightly colored here, something fruity there, and she smells of alcohol, but still smiles and dances with him.
It seems like this dance might never end. Until the music finally does ends, and the DJ is saying something which he can't understand at all; it's all crackly garbage as he talks with his mouth too close to the microphone.
Then that doesn't even matter, though he's still puzzling it out, because she laughs and throws her arms around his neck.
"Let's dance some more!" she yells as if the music is still playing, then plants her lips against his.
For one long moment he's surprised, and a little concerned. If it's the alcohol, he knows he should stop it right this instance. But then it gets complicated, because her hand threads through his hair and the other moves to his back. It's much more than a drunken kiss now, because she's got her chest pushed up against his, and one leg maneuvered between his own so that her thigh is rubbing him in places he doesn't discuss in mixed company in public places.
He knows all these things, but the kiss ends before he can really consider them.
"I'm ready to go," she whispers this time, her hand still cradling the back of his head.
To deny her right now would make him a fool. Yes, he's had his share of drunken kisses, but that one was more. It wasn't all wet and sloppy, and her eyes were bright, not hazy or confused. That kiss with him was totally on purpose. Instead of speaking, because he's fairly sure his voice will crack (something he was always made fun of for in school), he simply disentangles himself from her, gathers their things, and makes for the exit.
In the car, he starts it, and has to ask, "Should we go to--"
"Take me home."
Which, in other circumstances he would consider a deal-breaker, but with her hand on his thigh, he can barely keep from driving at dangerous speeds. It doesn't matter because her hand creeps higher on his leg, and he almost gets them into an accident anyway.
He's fooled around in a car, but never while he was actually driving. Now he knows it's just not a good idea. However, it does make him wonder if it's wise to go inside with her; it's very obvious what she's got in mind, and he's getting doubts again.
Those doubts stay with him, hang over him like a cloud, until they arrive at her apartment, and she says, "Come inside."
And he nearly does, because she's crawling into his lap to kiss him again, and he's never ever known a woman this eager to kiss him.
It's a different kind of dance, one that's all about emotion and feelings and heat. Very similar to how he dances anyway, but this time with a partner that knows all his moves. It's interesting to note (which he doesn't do in the middle of it because it would just kill the mood) that it's not much like the two times with Angela. Just an interesting note, nothing more, because he has much better things to concentrate on.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Hadn't planned on more of this, but things happen.
Chapter End Notes:
Comments and criticism still welcome.
