𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟎𝟏 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈

"Enough about books, we sound like geeks," he began, "What else are you interested in?"

What else am I interested in? Nothing else that I haven't mentioned within the past hour. I'm not an interesting person. Coming clean, I decided to tell him just that, "I'm boring. I got nothing."

Adil lifted his head, considerate eyes flickering appreciatively all over me. In an instant, I felt self-conscious. I cleared my throat as an excuse to cover a portion of my face with my hand. Dissatisfied, I picked up a table napkin and wiped what didn't need wiping.

"You're not boring," the man's words were laced with sincerity, "I'm having fun. You're doing great, Alexie."

"You're not too bad yourself," I complimented, voice slightly muffled by the napkin. When he pried his focus away from me and back to the food, I revealed my face again.

At a lost for a new topic, Adil spoke sarcastically, "What's your, uh, favorite temperature?" his question eliminated the awkwardness that was starting to grow. It wasn't the bad type of awkwardness. It was the awkwardness after being stared at as if you were the brightest star in the galaxy. I'm not.

I laughed, "Temperature? That's boring, Adlib. What's your favorite type of water?"

Adil chuckled, "Sea water."

"Too bad, mine's tap," I shrugged, "Maybe this isn't gonna work out," I teased.

"Oh, I doubt that," he playfully cringed and shook his head, curls bouncing and following the movement, "I like you too much, I'll make it work."

At that, I felt both flattered and undeserving. The latter, maybe, is because Adil is so far the best I've met in my streak of flings, dates, and boyfriends. Not just physically, but his personality's bomb too. And his brain? God, you did a great job.

More dull comedic questions were thrown around like what our favorite gas for our cars were, if we prefer apples over oranges, if grandmothers have no other daytime hobbies other than to cut fruit, put it on a plate, and serve, and other more random queries. By the time Adil had paid for dinner—because he ignored my insistence, the awkwardness was far gone again.

We settled with calling it a night despite the night's many possibilities. Adil held Hannibal's door open for me and I slipped in, making myself comfy. I watched the man in all black round the car until he reached the driver's seat.

Sometime into the night, I asked him if he wears colors other than black, white, and grays. I could've figured it out alone, but I wanted to hear it from Adil himself: that he won't be able to admire pretty colors anyway. He said that he's giving the world a glimpse of what everything looks like for him. It was both beautiful and sad and... cool. Adil is cool. He's what my middle school crush would've wanted to be.

As Adlib drove me home, I realized that the universe wants me to get laid. Why? Because my all-time favorite sex song blared through the radio when I opened it. Meeting In My Bedroom by Silk was released when I wasn't even born yet and I knew all the words since I was thirteen. In the background of a warm night, it played faintly.

Questions were still rolling in and I can't remember who started the sexual motif.

"Light on or lights off?" I sounded like a Snapchat fuckboy.

Adil shook his head as he chuckled, two sexy hands on the wheel. He shot me a sideways glance, "On. I like to see what I'm doing. Fast or slow?"

The window of the car felt cool against my cheek. I answered, "Slow. I take my
time. Front or back?" if Pastor Jonathan from my hometown could hear me now, he'd give me a pray over.