“Well then-” I cleared my throat, “I should call Jon back and see if we can still get together.” I said the words but I didn’t particularly want to follow through on the action. I stalled by glancing at my watch.
“Or,” Quinn leisurely reached over and plucked his cell phone from the table, slipping it into his pocket, “you could stay here and enjoy the concert with me.”
I lifted my wide eyes to his, “You’re staying for the concert?”
He nodded.
I opened my mouth to ask if we were allowed to stay but then thought better of it. I contemplated the current state of things. I contemplated Quinn; he looked relaxed yet somehow on edge. It also struck me again at that moment how startlingly, painfully handsome he was. A fresh stab of awareness sliced through me and, abruptly, I desperately wanted something to drink. Pulling my attention away from him I eyeballed a martini glass on the bar filled with a bright yellow liquid and lemon twist garnish; the rim was coated with either salt or sugar, or salger (sugar + salt).
I crossed to the bar and lifted it toward him, “What’s this?”
“That’s a lemon drop.”
I picked it up and sniffed it. It smelled good. “What’s in it?”
“Lemon juice, sugar, and vodka.”
“Vodka?”
“My sister, Shelly, says it tastes like lemonade.” Quinn took a large swallow of his beer, finishing it, and reached for the second glass next to his plate.
I thought about mixing vodka and Quinn; it would make Quodka, which sounded to me like some sort of Bulgarian card game involving gangsters and prostitutes. I put the lemon drop back on the counter and motioned to his glasses of beer, “Are there any more beers?”
“These aren’t beers, they’re boilermakers- beer and whiskey.”
My eyebrows lifted of their own accord; “Oh.” was all I could think to say.
Considering my options, I took a sip of the lemon drop. It didn’t exactly taste like lemonade but it was delicious. I moved to the buffet and picked up a plate with my free hand. However, before I could start heaping on piles of potato chips Quinn’s voice stopped me.
“I fixed you a plate already. It’s over here on the table.”
I turned to face him; “Oh.” was again all I could think to say.
I put the empty plate back in its place, picked up a second martini glass full of the bright yellow liquid, and crossed to where Quinn was sitting; I slid on to the stool opposite him. The plate he’d fixed contained two hot dogs with generous amounts of both ketchup and mustard, a cornucopia of berries, and a perfect portion of barbeque potato chips.
I smiled at the plate, my stomach rumbled again, and took another sip of the lemon drop before setting both glasses down, “That is exactly how I like my hotdogs.”
His mouth hitched to the side, “Fan of hotdogs, are you?”
I nodded as I bit into the sausage. It was still warm and it was also delicious. When I finished chewing I responded, “It was my favorite dinner as a child. I think I would have lived off hotdogs if my mom would have let me.”
“But she didn’t?”
“No, she was very body conscious, even when we were kids.” I licked mustard off my index finger.
Quinn plainly followed the movement and his eyes stayed on my mouth as he asked, “How many siblings do you have?”
“Two sisters. I’m in the middle.” I took another bite, licking the side of my mouth then washing all the nitrate goodness down with a generous wallow of the lemon drop. I could barely taste the alcohol. “How about you?”
“Um, one sister and…” Quinn took a gulp of his second beer.
I waited for him to continue; when he didn’t I prompted, “And?” then took a very unladylike bite.
“And a brother… but he died a few years ago.”
I stopped chewing and said, not thinking about my very full mouth, “Erm ser serrie erbert er beerder.”
Quinn half smiled, “What was that?”
I swallowed my food, took another gulp of my drink, and said again, “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry about your brother.”
He watched me for a moment then glanced away; he took a large swallow of his beer, finishing the second one off and starting on the third.
My head was starting to feel light, likely the addition of vodka to an empty stomach, but I attempted to push the sensation away and focus on our conversation, “Were you very close?”
He nodded then cleared his throat. Still he didn’t look at me; still he said nothing. Without thinking I reached up and covered his hand where it rested on the table with mine. “That completely sucks.” I finished my lemon drop, raised the elbow of my free arm to table-top, and rested my chin in the palm of my hand.