I’m at dinner with Stuart (well, technically I’m in the bathroom on my phone—I couldn’t wait to record this). Over Vietnamese food, we got into a disagreement about whether the formation of capitalism was an inevitable part of human nature.
When it got so heated that I banged on the table, lifting the hot sauces a centimeter out of their brackets, Stuart said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to argue.”
He looked actually worried, as if I would storm out or something, and took my hand across the table. “You’re really torn up about this,” he continued. “We should stop.”
He looked so cute. He was wearing a blinding-white button-down that brought out the best brown in his skin and the lights in his eyes.
I leaned across the table and whispered, “Are you kidding?” I hadn’t argued like that since before Nationals. I could feel my cheeks full of blood and heat, and my head was still climbing all over his position, scrambling to spar with a worthy opponent. “This is the most romantic thing we could possibly do.”
“Really?”
“I want to…” I looked around. The place was full to capacity with chattering families. “I want to make out with you in the middle of this restaurant.”
Stuart leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows. “Then do it,” he said, daring me.
So I did.
I mean only for a few seconds. But I did it.