“Oh. Ha. No, I was just looking at the reviews for the film.”
“And?”
“They’re good!”
“Flustered, much?” He pinches my thigh. “You were expecting me, right? And not some other guy you’re seeing.”
“Am I? No, I’m not expecting anyone else!”
He kisses me. “Glad to hear it,” then briefly rests his chin on my shoulder. “You smell good.”
“Oh, well, I showered today, so you’re welcome.”
You could call me a little skittish for almost getting caught, but Ben laughs. “Classy,” he says. “I do appreciate a showered woman. Food should be here soon.” He’s whispering even though the lights haven’t fully dimmed, others are still filtering in and those already seated are having audible conversations. The woman behind me asks her friend if polygamy is the one to do with sex or maths because “Darren keeps bringing it up,” and when I reach forward for my blanket, the lady seated in front of me is on her phone typing “LOOOL” with a straight face whilst maintaining a conversation about scrimping on toilet paper with her date/housemate. Apparently, “It’s just not on, Connor. Two-ply is the minimum. I’ll not tell you again.”
“You’ve ordered?” I ask.
“Pretty much everything on the menu,” Ben replies. “My way of apologizing for leaving you on your own for so long.” He pulls me closer until I’m under his arm, then rests his head back.
“Things at work are manic?” I ask quietly in case he’d rather silence.
“As always,” he says. “But lately, I don’t know what’s going on. It’s always ‘one more email’ before it’s two hours later.” He kisses the top of my head. “It won’t happen again.”
“I don’t mind.”
A man arrives with our food and places it all on our table: mini burgers, nachos, and popcorn. Even penny candies in striped paper bags that remind me of nicking singular sweets from the canisters in Woolworths and then believing my sticky fingers were the reason they went out of business. （They really shouldn’t have made them so easy to steal; if they were relying on the ethical morality of teenagers, they could only expect to be sorely disappointed.） He next arrives with two glasses of champagne. Ben squeezes my arm and says, “Help yourself,” just as the film title screens.
The World War I film is one I picked: during Operation Alberich, two young soldiers have to cross enemy lines in order to deliver a message to the British on the other side and failure to do so will mean the innumerable loss of British lives. I was hooked as soon as I saw the trailer.
“It’s starting,” two-ply-or-nothing says. “We’ll talk about this later.”
* * *
Halfway through the film, I sneak a glance at Ben, and he’s completely absorbed. I notice how long his eyelashes are and how defined his jaw is. He is handsome and I’m attracted to him, but do I want him inside of me? Do I want to forever refer to him as the man that took my virginity?
Do you remember that early noughties show Lizzie McGuire and how her subconscious was a small, animated version of herself? Well, I have that too. A mini-me living, breathing, and moving in my head, always with waist-length twisted braids and so much more attitude. At times, she’s actually quite rude. I ask her if we want to sleep with Ben and she shrugs.
I mean … We don’t mind, do we? You read those how I lost my virginity stories and some of them were fucking grim. She lies back on a velvet chaise lounge. Here’s Ben, good job, very well paid and experienced. Yes, maybe we should care a bit more, but you know … She taps her watch. It took us this long to get here—let’s not wait another eight years. She stands to twirl on her platform sandals. You’re the New Maddie now. We’re meant to be having fun, remember?
* * *
The credits roll and I squint when the lights come on; I feel light-headed from the champagne when I lift my neck. “Do you think it’s a Marvel-kind-of-thing and there’s something after the credits?”
Ben stops unwrapping himself from our blanket. “You’re into Marvel?”
“Yes, them and DC? Love those guys. Mainly the films however.”
Ben considers me. “Favorite superhero?”
“Black Panther or Spider-Man.”
“You continue to surprise me,” he says. “I didn’t think you’d choose this film for us to watch. I didn’t have you down as a history buff.”
“I’m not really, but I’d heard so much about this one I thought, why not try something new, you know?”
“Yes, I do.” He smiles. “Dear Maddie, can I interest you in a nightcap?”
A red alarm goes off in Subconscious Maddie’s room. CODE WORD ALERT.
I try to keep my eyes steady on his. “At your place?”
“Yes.” He holds my gaze and gently squeezes my hand.
Go for it.
I take a small breath. “That would be nice.”
* * *
“You have an actual bar?” I ask as Ben opens a cupboard in his kitchen. My heart is tapping and my legs feel weak. The lock of his front door clicking shut was resounding. Just keep talking. “How did I not notice that before?”
“There’s a reason I had this kitchen designed to include a lot of cupboards,” he says. “What drink would you like?”
“Well, it is a Friday night, so I’ll have a virgin mojito, please.”
Ben snorts. “Sure,” he says, pouring dark liquor into the bottom of a tumbler and sliding it to me. “One virgin mojito.”
I look at him. “Believe me when I say, I know what a virgin mojito looks like and this is not it.” I lift the glass. “There’s hardly anything in here for a start.” I take a gulp and it instantly dries my throat. “Ben,” I gasp. “What the fuck?”
He laughs. “Welcome to the wonderful world of whiskey. You’ll want to sip it.”
“Too late, I’ve finished it now. Oh, my eyes are watering.”
He leaves the bar to kiss me and hold my face in his hands. “You’re wonderful,” he says. “So … new.”
“Thank you.” Just keep talking. “The film was…”
He continues to hold me until I’m looking him in the eyes; I rarely do this with anyone because lengthy eye contact is too much for me. Others value it highly, but I can’t—or don’t want to—imagine what they’re seeing （or what I’m revealing） when they stare so intently.
Ben’s forehead is large and perhaps a third of the reason why his face seems long, and his hair is swept back today. His eyebrows are groomed and his eyes crease at the corners when he smiles, like he’s doing now. His nose cuts right through the middle; his lips are thinner than mine, but his bottom is fuller than the one above. He hasn’t shaved for a few days, or maybe he has but not too closely. I follow the lines of hair and imagine him stood between my legs whilst I’m sat on the counter, trimmer in hand, shaving his beard. We’re laughing because I’m doing a terrible job.
I now have my hands on Ben’s face, and he’s kissing my fingers and then my palm, my neck, cheek, and lips. It feels nice and manageable.