Shared Space

The maple avenue in the northern part of the park had been his personal haunt for years, being the only place in the city where he could get any work done. His dorm room was always haunted by his roommate’s girlfriends. His friend, Rick, was in the Chemistry department; the last time he had tried to work in his room, an accident had resulted in a gaping hole through his copy of Tennyson’s poems. Drake Johnson always managed to hunt him down in the library and the cafeteria was an invitation for disaster. Here, he had always managed to find a measure of peace, enough to sit and concentrate on his literature, until this girl had invaded it a fortnight ago.

Her presence had irritated him at first. Not only did she occupy his spot, she also brought her dalmatian along with her. It always eyed him so thoroughly, growling lowly in its throat, as if sizing him up to see who would win in a fight if he tried to chase it and its owner away. Once, when he had made an aggravated face at it, it had barked loudly at him, making him scramble backwards and grab for his books. The girl had reined it in, apologizing profusely, and had offered to leave if she was bothering him. To his surprise, he had let her stay.

They had settled into a seeming routine for the next week or so. He would be annotating his paper on ‘Tristan and Isolde’ and she would be tapping her feet to whatever song was playing on her iPod. He was always there before her, drinking a cup of the strongest espresso he could get. She would join him a few minutes later, give him a polite smile of acknowledgement and sit on the opposite bench, swaying silently to her music.

He didn’t have the best track record with girls; every crush he had ever had had ended up dating his friends or the bullies who enjoyed beating him up in gym class. On his own part, he would get so shy around a pretty girl and his mouth would run a mile a minute in defense, and he would end up spouting streams of trivia until she made an excuse to leave.

His roommate hadn’t taken long to deduce that there was a girl in his life. How he figured it out, he would never find out. He figured that it was something about serial daters in general: they could always find out when evasive answers translated into a female. 

“Who is she?”

 

“I told you, Dave, there isn’t anyone.”

“I’ve known you for two years and I’ve known nerdkind for longer. You’ve got it bad, man! Is she pretty?”

 

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Aha!” He had pointed a triumphant finger at him. “I knew it! Come on, what’s her name?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve been mooning after the girl for two weeks and you don’t know her name?”

“I haven’t been mooning!”

Dave had caught the book he had thrown at him. “You leave at the same time every day and come back looking like a plastered arse. You’re practically stalking her!”

“I am not stalking!” he had snapped. “And how do you manage to unstick yourself from Lisa long enough to see me leave?”

“Lisa…is that her name? Oi, keep your books to yourself!”

“Moron.”

“You’re worse.” Dave’s face became serious as he grabbed him by the shoulder and fixed him with a stare. “Look here, if you don’t man up and go talk to the girl, someone’s going to take her before you even get the sense to try.”

He knew that he was in a bad state when Dave’s words made sense. He had moved more hesitantly that day when he left his dorm room with his laptop bag and a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets under his arm. He had been so deep in thought that he had tripped and spilled half his usual espresso into a potted plant outside the coffee shop, narrowly missing a woman and her baby. 

I’m a goner, he had thought hopelessly as he sputtered apologies to the outraged woman and fled. He had taken a breath and stopped in front of a shop window. Turning to face his reflection, he had straightened up to his full lanky height, fixed his tan corduroy jacket over his sweater vest and tie. Checking his reflection in a shop window, he had puffed his chest out and smoothed back his wavy hair. Plastering on a confident grin, he had practically strutted all the way to the local park. When he had reached his usual bench, she was already there. She had glanced at him and smiled. 

His own smile faltered as he felt a sensation in his chest like a deflating balloon. She looked even prettier than usual with her brown hair tumbling loosely over her shoulders, held off her face with a tartan headband to match her scarf. He threw her a shaky smile in reply and pretty much scurried to his own bench.

I can’t do this, he thought miserably. Her headphones were in her ears again and her fingers swayed like a conductor’s baton on her lap. Her dark Rayban sunglasses prevented him from knowing whether she was watching him or if her eyes were closed. He wondered what kind of song she was listening to. Maybe she was listening to old fashioned Billie Holiday or Gershwin, or perhaps, boy band love ballads from the 90’s. Perhaps, she was one of those quiet girls who loved AC/DC and Metallica or a closet rap or heavy metal maniac. Maybe she was listening to a Mozart harpsichord piece or a Schubert violin composition. He silently hoped that she wasn’t into goth music or Justin Beiber. 

“What are you listening to?” he found himself asking. Immediately, he clapped a hand over his mouth, cursing himself for letting his thoughts slip out. 

She raised her brows quizzically and took off her headphones. “Excuse me?” Her voice was pleasantly musical. 

“I was wondering,” he stammered, “what are you listening to?”

“Oh,” she smiled and extended her headphones. “Do you want to hear?”

He blinked. “That’s all right?”

“Sure. Here.” He closed his laptop and moved over to sit next to her, keeping an agreeable space between them. Her dog gave him a suspicious look, but she patted it on the head and it dropped down again, though keeping an eye on him. He took her headphones from her and pulled them over his ears.

He smiled lightly to himself as the gentle, yet powerful strains of a symphony concerto wafted through his ears. As the orchestra played, a piano thrummed strongly in a haunting tune. He took off the headphones and handed them back to her.

“Very nice,” he found himself grinning. “What is it?”

“Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto no. 2 in C Minor,” she replied, taking her headphones and placing them in her lap. 

 

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s one of my favorite pieces. You like classical music?”

“I like listening to it, yeah. Do you play anything?”

“Yes, the piano. I’m a music student; my orchestra is working on this piece.”

He raised his brows, impressed. His breath caught lightly in his throat as he recalled the powerful drumming of the piano in that piece. An image floated into his mind: her attired in a long black dress, her fingers moving with unerring skill over the ivory keys of a grand piano while the orchestra behind her struggled to keep up with her pace.

“Wow,” he replied slowly, swallowing audibly. “I was in my school band once,” he quipped.

“Really? What did you play?”

“The triangle,” he said with a sheepish grin. She laughed merrily at his embarrassed tone; he found himself smiling at her chuckling. Oddly, he did not feel mocked as he would probably in any other situation. 

“Oh, I’m sorry!” he flustered, offering her a hand. “I didn’t introduce myself! I’m Arthur, Arthur Grayson.”

“Nice to meet you, Arthur,” she replied pleasantly, lifting her own hand to shake. He grabbed it nervously. “I’m Gwen.”

“Gwen,” he tested the name on his tongue. “Is that short for something?”

She raked her fingers through her hair in a sheepish gesture. “Guinevere,” she admitted, “but don’t tell anyone.”

“Why? It’s a pretty name.”

“A mite bit old fashioned,” she shrugged. “I used to get teased for it. My parents are big fans of literature. They get their switching fancies from time to time. If I had been born a few years earlier, I might have been Arwen, from…”

“The Lord of the Rings,” he completed, nodding. “Arwen is a good name. They could have named you Galadriel.”

“Gorgeous name, but imagine going through high school with that.”

Arthur grimaced. “I can imagine. So your mum and dad fancied L’morte d’Arthur. Good taste.”

“You read a lot, I presume?”

“I’m a lit student,” he replied. “Reading is a part of my job description.”

“Really?” Her face seemed to light up as she scooted around to face him more properly. “What are you working on right now?”

“Well,” he said cautiously, “right now, I’m working on a paper describing female archetypes in fifteenth century literature, mostly from the King Arthur legends, old mythology and related texts. I also have another paper regarding my personal interpretation of Goethe’s Faustus regarding the relationship between Faust and Mephistopheles. I’m also working on a little extra credit project about Shakespeare’s sonnets and his fascination with the iambic pentameter.”

He bit his lip slightly after finishing his explanation. Most girls blinked blankly at him, called him a nerd or became obsessively romantic. Instead, Gwen gave an interested nod and a cheeky grin.

“I bet you barely sleep with that kind of workload. It explains your need for strong coffee. The smell of it fills the whole avenue! It’s how I can always tell when you’re coming.”

He blushed and hid a smile. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said airily. “So what female archetype do I fit into?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he replied honestly. In truth, he did not know if she could be categorized as easily as the women of literature. There was something about her that interested him to no level. 

“Spoilsport,” she teased.

“You might just be an archetype of your own,” he said airily.

“If you say so,” she shrugged, her lips twisting in amusement, “King Arthur.”

“I do say so,” he shot back, startled at his own boldness, “Queen Guinevere.”

Her cheeks colored a faint pink at his retort and he felt like kicking himself. He opened his mouth to stutter an apology, but held himself back and instead, plucked up his courage and asked pointedly, “So, does Queen Guinevere like coffee?”

“No.” His heart sank at her abrupt reply and he shifted a bit away from her, his face coloring in embarrassment. She seemed to notice because she cried, “No, it’s not like that! It’s just….”

“Just what?”

“Arthur,” she said slowly, “you’re nice, really. I’m just not used to this. Sorry.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Most boys…don’t really like me.”

 

“I don’t get how. You’re very…interesting,” he said lamely. 

She laughed before sobering. “Did you ever wonder why I wear shades in the autumn?” she asked slowly.

“No,” he replied warily. “I thought you just liked them.”

Gwen reached up and took them off. Her face looked brighter and lovelier without them; he quietly wondered why she kept them on. Slowly, she opened her eyes and turned to face him. Her irises were a bright summer blue, but the dots that were her pupils were milky white.

“You’re…”

“Blind.” She turned away from him. 

“But how do you play the piano?” he asked in bewilderment. “How do you know about books?”

“I wasn’t born blind,” she replied. Her shoulders seemed to hunch inwards. “I was a bit of a prodigy on the piano and have an eidetic memory; those help. And my parents used to read to me a lot.”

“I see.” She looked so fragile, like a lost child. The world was as unfair as those in books; she was too sweet a person to be so sad. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Well, if Queen Guinevere doesn’t like coffee, then what does she like?”

“I can’t see, Arthur. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“King Arthur can see enough for both of them and can help her where she needs it, as long as the Queen’s dog doesn’t decide to rip his leg off.”

She threw her head back and laughed, the sound reverberating in their maple avenue like a lark’s call. He found himself grinning foolishly.

“Queen Guinevere likes macaroons.” she replied, beaming at him. “Chocolate macaroons and black tea, and she knows a wonderful place to get them.”

He stood up and took her arm, looping it gallantly around the crook of his own. “Lead the way then, and don’t put those back on,” he stopped her as she was about to wear her shades. He blushed. “You look nicer without them.” 

“You do know how things ended with Arthur and Guinevere, don’t you?” She beamed teasingly as she stowed her Raybans away.

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Then, I’m glad that no person goes and names their kid Lancelot.”

Joy to the World...

Time for joy and time for cheer!

I've always loved Christmas time, ever since I was a wee lass watching the twinkly lights on the trees in the avenues or singing with carolers in my can't-carry-a-tune voice or grabbing every peppermint candy cane I could lay my hands on.

I don't celebrate Christmas in terms of religion, not being a Christian myself, but I've always felt that any major festival, to whomsoever it be of significance, is all about the spirit. In my book, I'll be with my roots and personal beliefs, but still, get into the spirit and respect for any other festival, be it Id or Hanukkah or Kwanza or Christmas or anything else. Because, really, ultimately, they're all times of joy, happiness, family and giving. It's the spirit of love and magic, friendship and brotherhood that it stands for and that is something that belongs to the universe.

So, to those in snowy places, Happy White Christmas! To those in not so snowy places (like where I am), Merry Christmas! To those who speak other languages besides English, I'll let the picture do the talking. They do speak a thousand words, after all.

And I would kill for a candy cane right now. Yes, I have an unhealthy obsession with peppermint.

Arguments of a Nerdy Couple: Cooking Fiascos

Rose shuffled into the kitchen, mouth wide open in a yawn as she tugged on one earlobe. “G’mornin’,” she mumbled as she scratched her head.

“Afternoon’s more the word, Rosie Rose,” John replied, tweaking her nose.

“Seriously?” She stared at the wall clock incredulously. “Why the hell didn’t you wake me up?”

“Firstly, because it’s Sunday. Sundays are officially lie-in days; doing otherwise is pretty much against the law. Also, you sleep like you’re dead.”

“I do not!”

“I’ve seen cadavers that offer better response than sleeping you. And you’re a nightmare when I try to wake you up.”

Rose smirked. “You’re just sore,” she teased.

“You kicked me in the chin!”

“You were bouncing up and down on the bed!”

“I was trying to wake you up!”

“I don’t like being woken up rudely,” she replied in a prim tone.

“You’re a violent woman. Sally called whilst you were snoring away.”

“Shut up, I don’t snore. What did she want?”

“She wanted to talk,” he replied simply. “She sounded halfway between teary-faced and flaming temper.”

“Good, she finally broke up with Rick then.”

“You mean, he broke up with her.”

“Nah, she’s been planning to dump him for ages.”

“’The A-Team’ tonight says that he left her,” John challenged.

“’Moulin Rouge’ says the other way around. You’re on. Is there any coffee?”

“Nope,” he replied, popping the ‘P’ for emphasis. “We’re all out; have to go buy more.”

Rose stared at John with an expression of abject dismay, her voice a tortured whisper. “We have no coffee?”

“Nope,” he repeated.

Rose still stared at him as if he had trampled on her pet cat. “My morning caffeine…” she whimpered.

“Hush, madwoman,” he chided, ruffling the darkening top of her blonde head. “Anyways, no coffee in the afternoon, missy. You’re going straight for lunch.”

“I want my coffee,” she pouted. “I get grumpy if I don’t have my coffee in the morning.”

“Well,” he shrugged, “the morning is long gone and you’re cute when you sulk.” He pinched her cheek teasingly and moved over to the hob to add freshly chopped peppers into the pot.

“Sadistic bastard,” she muttered at him. Strolling forward, she leaned over the bubbling concoction in the pot, giving it a suspicious sniff. “Exactly what kind of stew is this?” she asked.

“This, Rosie Rose, is an old family recipe,” replied John loftily, sprinkling salt over it and turning up the heat on the hob. “I could tell you what has gone into it, but then,” he sighed dramatically, “I would have to kill you.”

“Nah, you won’t,” she quipped. “You’d miss me too much.”

“Sadly, I’m caught in a situation where I must agree with you.”

“Oh, the tragedy,” she sighed sarcastically.

“Indeed.  Nice pajamas, by the way.”

Rose looked down at her black and white Mickey Mouse pajama pants. “You got them for me, if I remember right.”

“Yes. And we nearly broke up because of the T shirt,” he recalled.

Rose snorted. “We made up properly afterwards,” she pointed out.

His smirk stretched across his face. “Yes, we did. A proper game of Beauty and the Beast.”

“I get to be the Beast next time.”

“Oh, I look forward to it.”

“And Iron Man could kick Captain America’s ass any day and you know it.”

“Let’s not start that again, yeah?” he suggested. “You were up late last night on that project of yours which would have gone doubly fast if you had just let me help you…”

“I told you I want to try doing it myself! I won’t learn anything if you keeping doing it all for me!”

“Your loss,” he groused. “Bloody useless. You date a right veritable genius and don’t even let him help you in the teensiest little way…”

“Your modesty blinds me.”

“Anyway,” he continued, changing tack, “you lost all of today’s lovely morning slumbering into your pillow, missed my famous chocolate chip waffles and you’re finally awake in time for me to make you a wee bit of lunch. So let’s keep things nice, eh?”

Her mouth quirked in a sideways smile as he tapped her on the head with his ladle and pecked her on the nose. “Fine, no Avengers debates,” she agreed, “for now.”

He barked out a laugh. “Oh, the compromises of a relationship with a nerdy twit.”

“Takes one to know one, love,” she said sweetly, approaching the hob. “But really, what’s in here?”

“Can’t say,” he said simply. “Top secret. You’d have a whole highland clan on your heels with torches and pitchforks if I even breathed as much as a word.”

“Oh, come off it,” she snorted.

“Don’t mess with family, Rose,” said John gravely. “We Highlanders take our secrets very seriously.”

“Highlanders, Lowlanders, come on, we’re all Scots here! You’re seriously fussing because I’m Glaswegian and you’re neighbors with Nessie?”

“No,” he said flatly. “I’m fussing because it’s a family recipe and unless you marry me, you’re not allowed to know.”

Rose’s head jerked up to stare at him in mute question. He merely smiled airily and hummed an odd tune as he stirred the bubbling contents of the pot. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but didn’t comment on it.

“I don’t need you to tell me anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what’s gone in here.” She peered closely into the pot on the hob, squinting as steam floated around her face. “Potatoes, chicken squares, peppers, mozzarella shreds, basil, oregano….” Her expression shifted into one of horror. “Oh my God, is that a…”

“No peeking.” John dragged Rose away from the pot by one of her pigtails. “If you want to help the chef, run along and grab some plates. Put a good movie on and wait for him to complete his masterpiece. Make up a few songs about how wonderful his stew will be, and if that’s too difficult for you, just do what the apron says.”

Rose threw a sardonic look at his purple ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron before trying to elbow past him to get back to the hob.

“You’re mad!” she squawked as John’s arms grabbed around her midriff to keep her away from his precious stew. “You’re completely bloody barking mad! No idiot in hell would put…”

“It’s the whole flavor!” he grunted as Rose tried to bat away his hands with a soup ladle. “I told you: it’s a family recipe and that means you’re not allowed to argue with it!”

Rose fell limp in his grasp and changed course, moving for the spice rack instead. She rooted through the bottles, muttering to herself, before grabbing one with a triumphant exclamation.

“At least add a bit of this in there!” she pleaded, shoving the bottle in his face. “It’ll alleviate the flavor!”

He wrinkled his nose as he read the label, his eyes crossing from the proximity. “Not a chance,” he snorted. “Now shoo! Go watch ‘The Lion King’ or something. Call me when the songs come on.”

“I am not eating that nosh unless you fix it!” Rose darted under his arm towards the hob.

“There’s nothing to fix!” he argued, pulling her away by the waist.

“Let go of me, you oaf! I’m trying to help you!”

“I don’t need help! Give it to me!”

“I’m never marrying you if you don’t fix it!”

“You love me too much to not! Give me that!”

Rose squeaked as he tried to tickle her to make her drop the spice. She ducked under his arm, scampering out of the kitchen, bottle still in hand. He pursued her into the living room, chasing her around the furniture as they both tried to avoid bumping into the TV. He blocked her path as she tried to slip back into the kitchen and vaulted over the coffee table, pinning her to the couch. The spice bottle slipped out of her hand in the midst of the scuffle, flew out the balcony and down three floors. Silence fell between them as they stared at the spot in the sky where the spice bottle had been for a fleeting moment. 

“Well, that’s that.” Rose threw a dirty look at John’s smug smile. “Rubbish spice anyways. I don’t even know why we had it. Bad luck, Rosie Rose!” he sang.

His triumphant cackle morphed into a horrified yell as he entered the kitchen. Rose poked her head in to see him switching off the hob and batting madly at the air where the pot had started to spew smoke. He threw a mug of water over it before the alarms could go off and staggered back, staring despondently at the thick charred sludge that had once been his stew. Rose sidled up next to him, rocking back on the heels of her bare feet.

“Pizza?” she chirped, beaming at him with the sunniest expression she could muster.

He grimaced at the ruin in his stew pot before exhaling in a defeated sigh. “Pizza,” he agreed.

Arguments of a Nerdy Couple: Spiderman, The Musical

Say it now, say it now
Explain to me
Why this happens to me every time
Give me a clue or tell me why
I just can’t walk away…

“Ye Gods, they’re turning Spiderman into a B-Grade chick flick.”

“If you look closely, you can actually see some undertones of High School Musical.”

“I know: that scene in the second one where Vanessa gets all ‘oh, you’re being so mean’, and Zac Efron starts singing while he’s crying…”

“That’s the one.”

Rose sniffed contemptuously, sinking in her seat and grimacing at the stage where the two actors 

were singing their heart-rending duet.

“The only saving factor in this thing are the funky lights and sets,” she groused. “And the costumes; they’re kind of Alexander McQueen meets Lady Gaga. But honestly, ‘Sinister Six’? Which idiot came up with that name?”

“The same idiot who came up with a name like ‘Batman’.”

“Don’t start!” she warned. “We already did the dramatic exit sequence in the restaurant! We’re gonna be blacklisted there from now on!”

“Ssshh!” hissed a voice from behind them. John and Rose threw apologetic glances behind them and turned their eyes back to the stage.

“Broadway is supposed to be complete and utter musical magic,” Rose sighed, gazing sorrowfully at the actors, who were finishing their song.

“This is your first time on Broadway?”

“No, I came here and watched ‘Cats’ once upon a time when I was a wee lass still in primary. We 

 were visiting my Da’s sister, Marie, here in New York, and she took us. I had already seen it before on West End, but Broadway was brilliant too.”

“’Cats’ is supposed to be a classic. That explains your fascination with felines.” He made a face.

“Oi, don’t disrespect the cats!” She elbowed him in the ribs.

“I would have expected you to name them something weird then, like Grizabella or Rum Tum Tugger.”

“I did consider naming one Asparagus.”

John wrinkled his nose. “I like the name Biggles, personally.”

She poked him in the side, grinning teasingly. “You like my cats!” she said in a sing-song voice.

“I like their names,” he said defensively. “Biggles, Phantom and Haddock. Fantastic choices.”

“My favorite captain, my favorite hero at the time and my favorite drunk.”

“I’m just glad you didn’t name one Bruce.”

“It could have been after Springsteen.”

He shuddered. “I’ll stick with the Proclaimers, thanks.”

“Sssshhh!”

“Sorry!” John and Rose clamped their mouths shut and tried to concentrate on the show. It wasn’t long before John spoke up, his voice a low murmur.

“I watched ‘The Lion King’ here once,” he remarked.

Rose tuned to stare at him so fast that she nearly got whiplash. “No!”

“Yep.”

“Seriously?”

John’s smile turned smug. “Yep.”

Rose fell back against her seat, scowling petulantly. “I hate you,” she muttered at him.

“No, you don’t,” he grinned. She snorted lightly.

“The Lion King,” Rose groused. “You saw the bloody Lion King here. Ye Gods. Honestly, I think Reeve Carney over there and Bono are the only thumbs ups about this whole shenanigan.”

John snorted. “I’ll agree with Bono. Carney’s a weedy bugger.” He looked at her pointedly. “Don’t tell me you fancy him.”

“He’s easy on the eyes,” she shrugged, turning to look John up and down. “And you’re one to talk about weedy.”

“I’m not weedy,” he said loftily. “I’m trim, tall and I’ve got long legs. I do a lot of running. And you love it.” He poked her on the forehead. “Besides,” he added with a nonchalant air. “The MJ girl’s pretty hot.”

Rose laughed out loud. “Liar! She’s not even your type!”

“And how would you know my type, Rosie Rose?” He raised a brow at her.

“You’re dating me, blockhead,” she knocked him on the head with a knuckle. “The MJ girl is 

definitely not your type. She’s not even a real ginger!”

John fingered a lock of Rose’s yellow hair, glancing at the russet roots. “You’re not even a real blonde.”

“You love it,” she retorted, sticking out her tongue.

“Shut up!” the voices behind them hissed even louder this time.

“Sorry!” they whispered back, huddling lower in their seats. Rose scooted closer to John’s side and let him put his arm around her shoulders.

“At least someone seems to be enjoying this clown show,” she muttered.

“If they fancy seeing a guy in a green Power Rangers mask masquerading as one of the most brilliant 

villains in Spiderman history while belting out jingles on top of the bloody Chrysler building…”

“At least he can sing.”

“I’ll give him that.”

She turned to look up at him. “John?”

“Yes, Rose?”

She blinked her large eyes at him. “Do you like Spiderman?”

“Yes, Rose,” he said gravely, “I do like Spiderman. Do you like Spiderman?”

“Yes, John,” she nodded seriously. “I do like Spiderman.”

“Even though he has powers?”

“The fact that he’s a kid is appealing. New angle.” She smiled brilliantly. “Glad to see we agree on 

something.”

He leaned in closer to her. “Then what the hell are we both doing here?”

“This was your idea, genius.”

“Want to bust out?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she beamed.

“And bowling green you’ll see with meeeeeee!” John suddenly howled along with the actor’s singing. The crowd ruffled angrily as people wheeled around in their seats and yelled at the two of them to shut up.

“We’ll bathe in Brighton,” Rose sang loudly, trying to stifle her giggles. ”The fish you’ll frighten!”

“When you’re in your bathing suit so thin, will make shellfish grin from fin to fin!” John grinned broadly at Rose, doing a little jig as he winked cheekily at her.

“Only the shellfish?” she demanded over the irritated protests of the crowd around them.

“Oh, I’m a shellfish, love!” he exclaimed, his eyes gleaming. “Here come the ushers.” He held out his hand. “Ready to run for it?”

She grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers tightly. “As ready as ever!”

Even as the ushers tried to grab them to escort them out of the theatre, John and Rose vaulted over the seats and slipped around them, running past the angry audience. They didn’t stop until they were out of the theater and far away. Backing up against the wall, they panted for breath, chests aching from giggling. John hoisted Rose up by the hand, which he had not released, pulled her to him, tangling one hand in her hair, and kissed her soundly.

“I love you,” she sighed as she broke away, her arms coiled around his neck.

He winked, pecking her on the nose. “Don’t I know it.”

She slapped his chest playfully. “So what do you want to do now?”

“You want to go back to my apartment?” he asked. “I just got the Avengers DVD. We could watch it to make up for the nosh back there.”

“Just the Avengers?”

“Well,” he dragged the word out, slinging his arm around her shoulders and tugging her against his side. “I’m sure there are plenty of things we could do after to keep us entertained.” He looked at her with a broad grin and waggled his eyebrows, making her laugh.

 “Sounds like a plan,” she beamed. Rose looped her arm around his waist and they took off at an easy pace.

“The Avengers are pretty brilliant,” John quipped as they walked, “but everyone knows that the real core of the team is Captain America.” “Iron Man,” Rose said at the same time.

They stopped and stared at each other, eyes narrowing.