Page 7 of Date With Danger

Which makes it all the worse that it was simultaneously the most embarrassing, yet most life-changing, kiss I’ve ever experienced. What’s worse? I think I bit him. Not on purpose. It was a knee-jerk reaction to being shoved out of a building. Karma, really.

My heels click on the concrete of the parking garage, and I assume the waitress will drop her hold, but she continues on. It’s kind of weird. But also oddly comforting after this strange night. I’m not sure if she’s leading me, or if I’m leading her, but one way or another we end up at my car.

This wasn’t the date ending I had in mind.

“Well, thank you,” I say as she finally releases me. But she must be worried I’m going to run back to the restaurant and toss a plate of spaghetti over the jerk’s head, (believe me, I’ve considered it) because she stays put, watching me walk around the car, and waving as I drive off.

Pulling out of the parking garage, I realize that I didn’t even get to eat my food. Which makes me seventeen kinds of angry. So, I stop at a taco truck and buy seven tacos before heading back home.

I haven’t eaten since breakfast and I’m wobbling on my heels by the time I make it up to the third floor of my apartment building, the aroma of tacos tempting me the whole way. The apartment complex isn't much. It's closer to a glorified motel, but at least I have an outdoor entry which means more natural light, and natural heat for me. Yay. My brother wasn't too keen on me staying here. He only relented because I had the dogs. Criminals are less likely to attack houses with dogs. At least that's what my dad said once.

“Darla, is that you?”

I smile at my older neighbor, Gary. Half of the time he thinks I’m his late wife. The other half he remembers my name and everything I’ve ever told him about me. Which is impressive since I only moved to this apartment a month ago.

“No, it’s Amelia,” I say, ignoring the fact that his shirt is inside out, and backward.

“Amelia.” He runs a hand over his unshaven cheeks. “I know an Amelia. Where do I know an Amelia from?”

“I’m your neighbor. And friend,” I say. “I brought you dinner.” I hold up the bag of tacos.

“Ah! Amelia.” He breaks into a grin, his eyes clearing up. “I knew it. It was right there on the tip of my tongue.”

Gary is in his early sixties, and also in the early stages of dementia, but dementia doesn’t care how old its victims are. His memory comes back quickly, but I worry about what will happen when it stops. Gary says he has a son, but I’ve never seen anyone visit. Should I ever meet him, I’ll make sure he knows what an awful piece of offspring he is to abandon his father in an apartment complex with zero help.

I take out four of the seven tacos and hand them to him.

“Mmm.” He smells the foil-wrapped goodness. “Thank you.” He opens one up right there in the walkway and takes a bite. The smell engulfs me, making me lightheaded.

“Come on, Gary. You’re my date tonight since my first one was a dud.”

I lead him three doors down to my own apartment.

“Kids these days,” he scoffs. That must be his favorite saying because he uses it like a curse. “Should I teach him a lesson? I used to be on the police force, you know.”

So he’s said. Depending on the day he’s also been a Navy Seal, a governor, and a Scottish sailor.

I think he watches too much TV. He does sing an impressive Scottish sea shanty though, so I wonder if he grew up in Scotland.

The second I unlock the door, my five-month-old boxer dogs come tumbling out into the hallway, jumping over the top of each other to get to the food and us. I usher them back inside and Gary pets each of them before sitting at the table.

Grabbing two cans of Coke from the fridge, I join Gary, ready to dive into my tacos. I devour the first one as quickly as I can inhale it. Has any food ever tasted so good?

Gary passes one of his tacos back to me with a cheeky grin. He doesn’t have to twist my arm.

“What happened with the date?” he asks, a tiny piece of lettuce stuck to his chin.

I absently rub my own chin with a napkin. “He wasn’t who I thought he was.”

“They never are. Back in my day, you had to call a woman up or visit her to ask her out. We didn’t do anything without respect, or flowers.” He winks.

“I believe you.” Oh, to be born in his day. Or maybe not, I enjoy all my unnecessary technology.

He finishes his last taco and leans back in his chair, resting a hand on his stomach.

“What’s that?” he asks, nodding to the large package leaning against the wall beside us.

“Oh.” I take a drink, clearing my throat. “It’s, um, from my parents.”