I don’t like going on dates. I get uncomfortable. I feel so compelled to converse that I forget everything I could possibly contribute. I keep wondering if I’m eating right; if you’re bothered by how loud I am when I take a sip. Am I using really weird metaphors? Am I making enough eye-contact? It’s all maddening, really.
I’d probably be more at ease if we’d go to a café in Narnia that had a fireplace beside an antique bookshelf. They’d give me a book depending on what I’d ordered. And I know you don’t get enough sleep so I’d politely ask the Fauns to make you “buttered toast, and then toast with honey, and then a sugar-topped cake” to cheer you up every morning we went there. I’m not big on breakfast so I’d just have Turkish Delight – just the good ol’ kind, though. You know, not the cursed type.
Sometimes, I wish I could just whisk you off from all the number-crunching you do on your desk, with no prior planning, and take you for Bob’s Burgers’ Burger of the Day. Mostly because I would be dying to see what pun Louise made up that day. Or if I ever had to wait for you in the corners of a dimly lit restaurant, I would want it to be perfectly acceptable for a human adult like myself to have a whole plate of Scooby Snacks and Wonka candy as a starter. And boi, I better not finish a whole Wonka Bar before you getcho ass across the table from me.
If we were too busy, we’d just grab a cold one real quick at the Star Wars Cantina and then watch some of the pod races. Or karaoke with the Cantina Band. Okay okay, a cold “one” may or may not become 17. Nothing a few swigs of Stinson’s Hangover Fixer Elixir can’t fix. And then we’d promise never again to drink like Haymitch Abernathy no matter how life seems to become more and more like the Hunger Games every day.
So, yeah maybe you’re right, we should just take away a giant greasy cheeseburger from the Restaurant at The End of the Universe. Or get a Krabby Patty and fries. And my hand to God, if you pick guac or any other dip over Szechuan Sauce: well, I just think we should see other people.
On second thought, going out is so hard, let alone underwater. There are people everywhere. Couldn’t we just stay at home, watch Game of Thrones and down endless bottles of Dornish Red wine after we cram ourselves with lemon cakes rated 10/10 by Sansa herself. Or – because even in fantasies, Zuku doesn’t work and we wouldn’t be able to stream – we could settle for reading The Rock of Gibraltar under plushy blankets and have a whole mug of Butterbeer to go with it.
And if we’d be set on eating at home, we would definitely get those replicators on Starfleet ships that make food on command. Cause if I’m cooking we’re either eating some shit that looks like those worms Klingons eat or I’m burning the kitchen down. Or we could act healthy for a change and make a salad: with no honeydew. Because honeydew is garbage fruit and nobody ever wants honeydew. You know what’s filling though? Milkshakes. Luckily, I know a place that sells a $5 milkshake that John Travolta thinks is a ‘pretty fucking good milkshake’ and Uma Thurman too.
When I’d feel adventurous enough to leave the house again, I’d want to go on the Black Pearl with you. Drinking rum from the bottle and singing pirate songs as loud as the ocean’s fury. If we can’t make that salad we keep rambling about, we’d settle for a whole bushel of apples while we listen to stories of cursed Aztec gold.
Or drive to Quahog and on the way there, we’d get Tantrum, bottles and bottles of it. I’d definitely want to end up on top of the car like Lily so of course, we’d chug it. And when we’d get back home, we’d have a Lord of the Rings marathon, with self-brewed ale and a stash of Old Toby, ‘the finest weed in the Southfarthing’.
But. But I’m still down to sit across the table from you in a white-bricked restaurant and let you teach me your magic. Like, can you breathe underwater? What makes you feel invisible? How do you do that thing where you raise tides in my heart?