She’d carefully chosen a light periwinkle button-down sweater with faux diamond buttons, flared black pants, and simple black three-inch heels. Her hair was parted on the side and combed back, and she’d spent far too long on her makeup, trying to get her cat eyeliner on hooded lids just right. Everyone else was dressed down in ripped jeans and sleeveless shirts, smelling of sweat, sawdust, and the outdoors. Huge tattoos stood out, as well as tight leggings jammed in various ass cracks, paired with halter tops that barely covered some of the oversized melons on display.
See? This is my fault. I always look before I leap, but I was so happy to hear from him today, I didn’t even think about it. I should’ve asked more questions.
Here she was in her favorite pair of sparkling teardrop earrings which finished her look, making her look like some queen amongst worker bees that may turn on her and sting out of pure entertainment. It would come as no surprise if he could read her mind. She already knew what he thought of her from the way he’d sized her up at the bar when they first met. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard it anyway—people thinking she felt superior to others.
I guess I’m proving him right by looking down on this restaurant and the people in it. I’m trying to be good. But hold up, are those clumps of hair on the floor?
Her eyes narrowed on a dark, strange shape in the corner of the restaurant, where lighting was poor, and God only knew what grew there.
Oh my God. Who lost their weave tracks? Oh… I think it’s just dirt.
She sucked her teeth and almost laughed at herself. I’m not stuck up, but I can be picky, and I’m not even trying to hold you because I’m not apologizing for having standards. I mean, a first date is usually people trying to put their best foot forward. Hell, this might be his best foot for all I know. Next time, if there is a next time, he could be taking me to Burger King, and using coupons for it, too. Let me stop. Now I really am being stuck up. It’s cool. As long as the food is good, that’s really all that matters. God, please don’t let me get sick, though.
She briefly closed her eyes and clasped her hands together in prayer.
The kitchen looks like it could use a good wash down. With a power washer and 100 gallons of bleach. Holy Hygiene and Saint Sanitation, please be on my side.
Her stomach roiled, a fluttering of flirtatious lust knotting within her when he suddenly leaned into her, tearing her away from her deliberations. He bumped against her ever so slightly, perhaps by accident, but just enough for her to be titillated by his touch. Looking up at him from over her shoulder, she watched his striking green eyes scan the menu on the back wall. His shiny, long hair was pulled into a ponytail, and a pair of sunglasses sat atop his head. Axel was wearing a short-sleeved army green shirt and jeans—nothing fancy, but it suited him for sure. His muscular arms, covered in tattoos, were in full view. She suddenly sensed he knew she was looking, so she begrudgingly turned away before things became more awkward.
He smells like Irish Spring soap and cologne. So good…
The Chinese woman regarded Axel, then her.
“May I take your order?” she asked abruptly.
“Yeah. Two Sweet and sour chickens with fried rice, and 1 pork egg roll. 1 beef Lo Mein, order of boneless spareribs. One bourbon chicken.”
“Ten extra minute on bourbon chicken!” the woman barked, though she sported a slight smile. Strange. Perhaps that was just how she always spoke, and meant nothing by it at all.
“That’s fine.” His eyes tapered as he looked at the menu once again, rubbing his hands together like some fly about to land on a pile of hot shit. “I also want an order of your Crab Rangoons. A Coke, too. Light ice. Don’t give me none of that Dr. Pips pop, or Walmart cola—the grocery store brand y’all stockpile in the back and then charge full price for. I want the name brand.”
Oh, so not only is he demanding with the staff and calling them out on their mess, he also ordered for me too, instead of asking what I wanted? I don’t want no damn short ribs and bourbon chicken. I’m hungry. Shit. She stood there and stewed. I’m about to order what I want anyway, and he can just stand there looking silly. He might be trying to control how much he spends. He should have never asked me out then, and from the truck he drives, and me being nosy looking him up online, he isn’t struggling. What with him owning his own company and all. I make good money, but HE is the one who asked ME out. He damn sure should be able to afford some takeout. Yeah, there won’t be a second date.