Tinder - D.JH.

seventeen

Dan had called for an Uber. It had pulled up as soon as we pushed the glass doors to my apartment building open. Perfect timing.

"Have I told you that you look nice?" Dan asks, opening the door for me.

"Yes, multiple times on the way down here." I laugh, feeling my cheeks heat up.

"Good." he says after he shuts my door and climbs into the backseat next to me. "Because you look really, really nice." he smiles, intertwining our hands, bringing my hand to his lips and kissing the back of my hand. My heart flutters in my chest as he shoots me that trademark dimply smile.

"Thank you." I say softly.

The Uber driver barely talks to us the whole way there, so Dan gives her five stars and a big tip for not making us hold a conversation with her.

"Thanks." Dan says as we file out of the car and into the fancy foyer, narrowly avoiding the rain leering over the city in a grey drizzle.

Dan wraps my hand in his and pulls me to the proper entrance of the restaurant. "Reservations?" the man in a white suit with a black bowtie fastened neatly around his neck asks.

"Yes, two for Howell." he looks up to the boy.

"Right this way." he says and I look past him to the restaurant.

It was posh, to say the least. Dan had really outdone himself. Crystal chandeliers hang from arched ceilings, illuminating the room in a warm vintage glow. The floor beneath our feet is plush red velvet, contrasting heavily with the tables in two different sizes, draped in a white-cream coloured silk cloth. The boy sits us down at a table where our menus, bound in black leather, lay on two heated plates. Our silverware is wrapped up neatly in a material the same colour as the tablecloth. The boy nonchalantly grabs two wine glasses, nodding to us as if to ask if we want any wine.

"Yes, please." Dan says.

"What shall I get you?" the boy asks.

"Top shelf, red wine." Dan nods to him, opening his menu.

I stare at Dan in a gaze.

That's probably the thousandth time since we've met. I stopped counting.

"M-Maya?" Dan asks worriedly.

"Yeah?" I ask, snapping myself back to reality.

"You okay?" he questions.

"Yeah." I repeat, "This is just really fancy." I open my menu slowly.

Immediately, I see grilled chicken alfredo.

Talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopping, spectacular, never the same, totally unique, completely not ever been done before.

To say the least, when the waiter comes back with a bottle of fancy red wine, asking for our order, I get that.

We eat while telling stories about our past. Dan tells me that he once burnt pasta because he didn't know you had to boil water in the pot with the noodles.

What a man.

We drink a little too much wine and laugh a little too loudly, but neither of us care because we're enjoying ourselves. After we eat, I insist that we split the check half and half as we pay. Dan orders another Uber to take us home.

Tipsy, we try and talk to the driver, but since it's about midnight, she takes nearly none of our shit. I sit in the middle seat while Dan sits to my left, our hands interlocked and placed on my lap as I look at him looking out the window, his cheeks rosy and his wavy hair a bit more rustled than usual.