Re: log: dylan & max
"I'm not going to hold the door open for you, just to prove I'm not 'into that chivalrous crap.'"
It was a serious promise, and Dylan even crammed his hands back into his hoodie pockets as a means of standing by his word. He only removed them with a slow reaction time when she did that zipper tug, and he had to grin when she drew away and slipped through the restaurant's door. Although calling it a restaurant might have been pushing it. The place consisted of a couple red booths and a stretch of counter space. One of those prime real estate hipster spots that whispered of a restored drug store or something. There were only a couple of people inside. The timing was perfect, falling between the hours of when most people ate dinner and everybody else realized belatedly that they needed to sober up with something greasy before heading home. The music that was being wired in through the ceiling was college radio, and Dylan was sure that Max hated it. Or would if she was even recognized the robotic folkiness as music.
Dylan made for the first booth, and palmed a hand around her side so that he could draw her into the seat alongside him, hip to hip. He leaned back, looked at the ceiling for a moment like the change in temperature was as disorienting as a change in altitude, but it was only a second, and then he looked at her. He liked that she seemed in good spirits. Enough so to smile, and enough to go for junk food even if they may as well have stayed at the bar and got wasted beyond recognition. He thought about the dimples she had when she grinned, and he wondered how he'd forgotten about them until tonight. Of course, psych 101 said that trying to forget things was a way of coping.
"I never thought I was going to see you again," he said, soft and unthinking.