"Hey, did you mean to book three dates with me this week?" She called as soon as she let herself in, heading toward the restroom to pee and wash her hands. Based on the smell and sounds coming from the kitchen, he was making dinner. When she walked past the living room, she was surprised to see Eli sitting in the armchair, reading a book with about as much interest in the world around him as the potted tree in the corner. If he was surprised that they were meeting three times that week, he kept it to himself. Bemused, she continued to the kitchen.
"Isn't that what you usually do?" He asked when she came into sight. "Three dates a week?"
"I didn't think you heard me." He'd made fajitas; as soon as he slid the bowl of meat and vegetables in front of her she started picking out choice bits with her fingertips.
"Here," he told her, shoving a warmer full of tortillas at her. She reluctantly stopped cherry-picking and began to construct her dinner. He rolled toward the living room with a loaded plate on his lap and one of the beers left from their first "date" between his knees.
He was back after an indistinct exchange of masculine joviality with Eli. Starving and not wanting to begin without him, she'd made a plate for him to pass the time.
"Drink?" He offered. She looked hopefully toward the coffee pot, and he looked reluctantly toward the cups, the spoon, the fridge, his food...
"Apple juice?" He suggested, like it wasn't the official beverage of childhood. She laughed.
"Apple juice sounds great." She laughed harder when he put an actual juice box in front of her.
"What?" He asked, feigning hurt. "It's the good kind. And the big boxes no less. See? Six point five ounces." She popped the straw in.
"It's delicious," she agreed. "I love it. I don't think I've had apple juice from a juice box since foster care." She had been about to take a bite, and she stuffed the fajita into her mouth to shut herself up. Please don't ask, she thought. Please. His interest did look piqued, but he dug into his plate without commenting. Eli brought his plate to the kitchen, washed it quickly and left again, earbuds in.
Karin raised her eyebrows curiously. Eli hadn't stayed before.
"He made the food," Rick joked. "I told him I wanted to impress you." He winked and started clearing the table. Unsure of how to help, she took over the dishes.
"I am impressed," she told him, "whether you or he cooked it. It was good." They finished their respective tasks without saying anything else, and he started coffee.
"I've been a bit... off, today," he admitted truthfully. "I wanted to see you but I was afraid I'd have a seizure or something. Eli offered to stay and it seemed like a good idea." She wasn't sure what to say, biting her lip uncomfortably.
"Are you alright?" Karin didn't know enough about his condition to know what him not being alright, would entail.
"Yeah," he said, though his hand was a little unsteady when he poured the cream. "I'll probably be fine once I'm more heavily medicated," he hinted, tipping his chin toward the tray sitting on the counter. She sat on a barstool and pulled it toward herself.
"Three?" she asked. "Four?"
"More," he rhymed sincerely. "I like it when you leave a couple rolled for me." She smiled affectionately.
"If you weren't feeling well we could have skipped this," she paused to run the tip of her tongue along the glue. "Apparently you're going to see me tomorrow anyway." She handed him the first joint to light, while she rolled half a dozen more. Lucky seven, she thought.
"This is what I need," he said, exhaling. She wasn't sure if he meant the weed, or her company, or...
"Not sex," he told her, passing. "Just, you. You make me feel... sane." She was grateful to have the chance to hide her blush in the smoke.
