The sun beats down on your shoulders and the tip of your nose as you lift your arms to serve an overhand ball. Harry shouts a string of nonsense to deter you and you allow the ball to drop and bounce against the court before holding twin middle fingers up at your opponent. He cackles and apologizes, allowing you to carry on as you serve successfully this time, beginning a competitive volley between the two of you.
Harry looks gorgeous underneath the mid-day sun; his sunglasses balance proportionately on the bridge of his nose and his sinewy muscles ripple with each jab and swing of the racket. He's graceful and his clothes hang effortlessly against each dip of his body and you're torn between conning that shirt away from him or asking him to wear it every single time you see one another.
He attempts to distract you each time you serve; mostly by yelling empty threats, waving his arms above his head or telling you to look at objects that aren't even there. Several balls that you project into his side of the court land just inside the sideline, causing him to run after them wildly with a swing and a miss or not even strive to rebound them. After an hour or so, you can tell that he's becoming exhausted by the way his humor and pace die down like an expired battery or a sleepy, grumpy toddler.
Harry pulls his sunglasses away from his face and uses the back of his hand to wipe a bit of sweat away from his forehead, "you've aced the shit out of me."
You smile and raise your arms in a humble shrug before you both approach the net tiredly, "you can't be better than me at everything."
He sucks his lip into his mouth and nibbles on the skin there, propping his sunglasses on top of his head and tapping his racket against your bottom, "I'm not. Trust me. I'm the worst." He holds his arms out to you for an embrace and you're stepping closer to drop into his grip as he holds you with the net pressing against your hipbones, "break time?"
Harry walks you to a smoothie shop down the block and forces you to try a wheatgrass shot, claiming it's "an effective healer" and "extremely rich in protein and contains seventeen amino acids". He hovers the glass at your closed mouth, your hands pushing his wrist away like a petulant child and he's laughing at your repulsed tenacity, "just try it, ace! It's insanely good for you!"
You sniff the thick, muddy liquid and stick your tongue out, plugging your nose with your fingertips and speaking in a nasally tone, "you are doctoring out so hard on me right now, Harry." He bites his lip between his teeth as pinches your bum and you're jumping into the air with a shriek, "fine! God. You are more stubborn than I am," you pluck the tiny glass from his fingers and narrow your eyes at his smug expression, "...moist."
He gags dramatically, his hand gripping his throat for effect and you're tossing your head back in laughter before downing the shot in one gulp and joining him in a revolted retch, "fucking shit. If I ate like you I'd be dead in a week. My body just requires different things, like chicken nuggets and Kit Kats."
His eyes crinkle attractively in appreciation of your humor and willingness to amuse him, "okay, good girl. I'll buy you whichever smoothie you want now." You gasp and clasp your folded hands under your chin and Harry is not surprised but no less beholden when you're asking for the one with peanut butter and cacao in it.
Harry tosses your racket over his shoulder and carries it to a table outside, pulling your chair out for you and then helping you slide it towards the table once you're settled, "such a gentleman."
He winks and sits across from you, curling his lips around the tip of the straw and sucking pink liquid through the plastic tubing, "so."
You peel your eyes away from his mouth to focus on his shielded gaze, "so?"
He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, adjusting his shorts as he places his smoothie on the black, mesh bistro table in front of him, "I have a date next weekend."
A sting burns deep inside of your chest and suddenly your beverage is of little to no interest to you but you strive diligently to not express it, "oh, amazing. What are you guys gonna do?"
Your stomach is knotted painfully and you're cursing each and every emotion that's rushing through your veins: chagrin, jealousy, dejection. Not one drop of what you're feeling is something that should be reserved for a friend and you wish the ground would suck it away from the bottom of your feet and swallow it hungrily.
His sight is honed in on your face and you're working overtime to keep it neutral, "I dunno, I was kind of hoping you could help me decide on a restaurant or a bar maybe?"
You nod and rush out a quick, "sure, happy to" before stuffing the end of your straw into your mouth and sucking hard.
Your hand tingles when he reaches across the table to drop his palm against yours, "thank you. You should come over on Sunday though. We can paint together and I'll give you all the gory details." You nod and smile but it slips away as quickly as it appeared.
Harry's chin falls into his palm and you're beginning to sweat under his careful consideration, "your hair is so shiny." There's a quiet pause as he extends forward, his eyes focused on the way his fingers slip through your soft tendrils until they reach the end. He spirals your hair around his knuckle before allowing it to drop effortlessly against your shoulder; his fingertips have a life of their own as they continue across your clavicle and down your bicep to your elbow.
His eyes soak into yours once again, "you're really beautiful, ace," both of your chests tighten but Harry is unable to recognize or identify the foreign object lodged in his throat, "we gotta get you a man."
The acronym CTND stabs your brain and your heart simultaneously as you mumble, "I think you're right," before leaning back in your chair and slurping the last bit of smoothie through your straw.
After tennis, you assisted Harry in choosing a white linen, five star French restaurant in a ritzy area of the city on the water, followed by a small café for dessert and cocktails if dinner goes well. You selfishly wished that you could find someone to take you on this exact date, imagining yourself in your favorite skin-tight, crimson bodycon dress with a pair of black stilettos as you sat aside a gorgeous man with his arm strewn across your shoulders.
He gave you full access to his closet so that you could help him pick out his outfit: a soft, black button down tucked into a pair of silken purple trousers with a scattering of florals and a suit jacket to match. He spun in a circle on jokingly dainty feet to give you a full view, bowing informally at the end of his rotation and you gave him your seal of approval in the form of a kiss on his cheek and a bid of luck.
.
The week drags; you count down the hours of each work shift until you're free again and then rush home to sleep, save for a couple evenings when you meet friends for drinks in order to distract your mind from a certain set of cotton candy lips scented with cinnamon.
Your phone is silent in terms of an extended hand from Harry - you attempt exactly one phone call on Thursday evening after half a bottle of wine, but hang up after the third ring like a coward and pray that he doesn't have caller ID.
You toss and turn in bed for the entirety of Saturday evening, imagining how Harry would act as he tried to impress a stranger; would he carry the same dry sense of humor that he does with you? Unabashed with wild abandon, making him laugh with his physical comedy and exaggerated facial expressions? Would he touch his hand and his thigh, his shoulder and his hair? Would he compliment him and pay for the meal, kiss him, promise to see him again?
Your stomach lurches and twists with sadness and envy as you lean across your night stand to face your clock towards you. It's one in the morning and you promised Harry that you would come over after breakfast but now your mind is spinning with dreadful scenarios: would he call you and cancel because he was enjoying his date so much that they stayed up late into the morning, listening to records at his house and making out on his couch? Would his date be shuffling out of the door in the morning as you make your way in, leaving a gaping hole in your stomach as you tried to act like your insides weren't wrestling in your ribcage?
The masochist in you wants Harry to share every minute detail down to what they both ordered, what cologne his date wore, whether or not he felt turned on when their tongues met at the end of the night. The other part of you wishes to know nothing; for Harry to keep every bit of the evening to himself so that you could convince yourself that it was awful and that they would never see each other again.
You stay awake for hours, mostly staring at the ceiling but drifting in and out of fitful rest as you try to breathe and calm your racing mind. The sun begins to subtly shift the color in your bedroom from black to slate gray and before you witness the first rays of light, your lucidity finally relaxes and pulls you under into a deep tug of sleep. You dream of a canoe floating in a crystal clear river under the shade of a giant sequoia tree, crickets and cicadas humming in the thick of summer as if they were creating the heat themselves simply by rubbing their back legs together and snapping their wings.
The shrill ring of the telephone cuts through your sedated psyche and without even peeling your eyes open, you're grabbing your cordless phone, thumbing the power button and pressing it to your ear, "mm, yeah? Hello."
Harry sounds worried on the other end, "everything okay, pretty? You're not mad at me are you? Are you asleep?"
You grumble about the volume of questioning as you roll onto your side and rub the bleariness from your eyes to focus on your clock. It reads 2:46 pm and you're pulling your eyebrows together in a confused frown, "what happened?"
He laughs and if you hadn't known any better, you could swear there was a hint of relief echoing in the back of his throat, "I should ask you the same thing. Thought we had plans this morning... are you standing me up?"
You inhale deeply and Harry smiles to himself at the small kitten sounds that squeak from your mouth, "no, no. I'm sorry. I slept funny? Or... something. Um, I'm coming over-"
He's interrupting your explanation, "don't be sorry. I was just worried that I'd done something to upset you. Would you like me to pick you up?"
Your overactive mind is wondering what he could be feeling guilty enough about that he would worry about you being agitated, but you decide to chalk it up to his sensitive, empathetic nature with a tepid crack of perfectionism. "Um..." you toss the covers from your body before unfolding yourself from bed and stretching your limbs to the ceiling, "no, I'm-" you pause to let a yawn escape, "on my way, okay? Sorry, Harry."
He breathes out a soft, fond laugh before agreeing and letting you disconnect to get dressed. You're ringing his doorbell in thirty minutes flat and Harry is swinging the door open before your finger disconnects from the small, illuminated button, "hi handsome!"
It seems as if he's already been painting today; he's clothed in a snug, white t-shirt that stretches across his toned chest and shoulders and a pair of slim fitted black jeans. Both articles of clothing are covered in splotches of paint - ruby, lapis and emerald and his hardened nipples are straining against the flimsy fabric of his shirt in an enthusiastic greeting.
His hair is pulled back with a strawberry-colored bandana that makes his lips pop with life and although tamed, his curls continue to crawl around the fabric in his hair and around his cheeks as if they were snaking their way to freedom.
He grips the doorknob as his eyes drink you in from head to toe; he pulls in a long, refreshing breath before bending at the knees to wrap his arms around your waist and hug you tight to his chest as he steps backwards into his house, kicking the door shut behind you once he's past the threshold. "Hi," he sets your feet on the ground after several seconds and squeezes your shoulder before removing himself, "worst date ever. I'm so glad to see you."
The grin that thunders across your face could almost be considered insulting, your heart plunging forward at the news that is a complete symphony to your ears. Your attempt to quell your excitement over his failed date is half-assed, "shit. That's awful. I should've brought Bloody Mary fixings. Okay, spill it."
He laughs and directs you into the kitchen, "good thing I have it all. That date... I feel like I wasted the outfit, that's how bad it was." Confetti is exploding inside of your guts in celebration as you watch him pull out vodka and tomato juice. He leans close to you and glances around the room as if someone were listening before he whispers, "worst blow job of my life."
In an instant, every shred of celebratory tissue is sucked back into your intestines like a surprise party in reverse, "what? You had a terrible date but you still let him put your dick in his mouth?" He pours a shot of vodka into a glass before downing it and extending the bottle to you in question. You shake your head and cover your glass with your palm but he just shrugs and starts mixing Bloody Mary's.
"He was about twenty minutes late," he takes a sip to check the flavor and continues to speak as he makes a few adjustments with the worcestershire sauce, "he talked with his mouth full and didn't offer to split the check. He bragged about his résumé and didn't understand any of my jokes but he was one of the hottest guys I've ever seen."
You start chugging your drink as soon as Harry hands it to you, nodding to feign interest rather than distress. You suck an ice cube into your mouth and chew it between your molars, "are you gonna see him again?"
Harry shakes his head intently, "no. I was honest, I told him that I didn't feel any chemistry and so... he left in a cab." He sucks his cheek into his mouth and puckers his lips as his voice lowers to a mumble that almost sounds ashamed, "um... I didn't - I didn't come. I didn't even get close."
You down the rest of your drink and pour more vodka into your glass, your head throbbing in pain at the onslaught of material. If being friends with Harry entails hearing all of his bad dating stories, you honestly may not be able to handle it, "you didn't? Is that unusual?"
He's quiet for a beat and you can tell that he is choosing his wording carefully, "yeah, that's unusual." It feels like he's omitting information, but you choose not to pry - the amount of knowledge that you acquired in the past five minutes was enough to last you for months. His next question surprises you, "do you?"
You raise your eyebrow for him to elaborate and watch as he swirls the ice in his glass, "when you're with... dates. Men. Do you come? Usually?"
Your skin lights on fire from the inside and your core tightens uncomfortably just from hearing him use that sort of language with you, "honestly, not usually. Hardly ever. It's a special occasion when I do." Harry's mouth forms the word 'oh' and then his eyes burn into your surface as they trail down the soft features of your face, across your sharp collarbones and to the spot where your body disappears behind the other side of his kitchen counter.
You shift restlessly on his kitchen stool and decide to change the subject, "so, should we paint? I wore my rags just for the occasion."
Thanks for reading, loves! Please remember to vote!
Xx Birdie