Chapter Three How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, dir. by Donald Petrie #4
Of course, that’s what they’re actually called, but Eli’s brain goes right to calling them boobs.
They look soft, squishy even. And Eli feels his face light up at the thought, but it’s true. It’s also been too long since
he had anyone other than the silicone toys that sit in his nightstand.
Peter has the kind of body where it’s clear that he works out, but in the bulking sense, in a way where Peter still has a
belly and fat. Eli could so easily picture himself taking a nap on Peter’s chest. He never realized he has a thing for men
like Peter, men who never sacrificed their softness.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah... I’m fine.” Eli has to recover, feeling that warmth in his stomach. Peter might be a mess, but he’s an incredibly attractive mess.
“Can I have a pancake?” Peter asks him.
Eli scoots the plate toward him. He wants to call the night off. Being late was one thing, but it’s clear that he and Peter
just aren’t a match for each other. It’s like pulling teeth to get a simple answer out of him.
Sure, the man is hot. Awooga hot, as Rose might say. But it’s clear that there’s nothing here. Peter might be fine for a good lay, if Eli thought that
he could actually get him into bed without Peter apologizing, but would it really be worth it?
Peter pushes the empty kimchi pancake plate back toward Eli, not looking where it’s going or thinking about how Eli’s half-empty
soup bowl is in its path. The plate collides with the bowl with a clink and just enough force to send it careening over the edge of the table.
And right into Eli’s lap.
“Ah, fuck!” Eli nearly stands in the booth, unable to react before Peter is squatted before him, a pile of napkins in his
hand as he tries to soak up as much of the mess as he can.
“I’m so sorry!” Peter throws his arm out, as if he can prevent what’s already happened. Instead, he knocks over his own glass
of water right in Eli’s direction, giving it just enough of a hit to spill onto Eli’s pants.
Again.
“Oh, God...” Peter reaches for the napkins once again, this time picking up the entire dispenser with the force of his
pull, leaving it to fall over on the table.
There are more than a few eyes focused on the both of them now, which only seems to make Peter more nervous as he attempts
to clean up the table, handing more napkins to Eli. “I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he says, the panic clear and present
in his voice.
“Well, I’d be more worried if you did mean it,” Eli tells him, taking the napkins from Peter and mopping up.
“God, I’m sorry.” Peter ducks under the table, picking up the empty soup bowl and doing his best to pile the napkins onto
Eli’s lap, not even paying attention to how he palms Eli’s crotch in an effort to clean up the disaster.
“Whoa there, cowboy!” Eli recoils from the sudden touch.
“Oh, God!” Peter shoots up, his head colliding with the underside of the table. “Crap! Ow!”
“Are you okay?” Eli can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. And hearing a grown man say the word crap . He can’t remember the last time he heard that out loud.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine, I didn’t mean to— Jesus.”
“Peter?” Eli peers under the table, and Peter refuses to look back at him.
“Yeah?” His voice sounds so quiet, like he’s ashamed.
“Please get out from under there,” Eli pleads.
Looking like a child caught in a fib, Peter crawls out and sits back in his spot. His hair is mussed and out of place, his
cheeks burning a bright red. And yet there’s still something so intriguing about him.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” Eli tells him, leaving the stained napkins on the table. “I’ll try and clean up.”
“Okay.” Peter still won’t meet his gaze.
Eli stands, grateful that the soup was room temperature. In the bathroom mirror, he can see that the sweater is fine, and
after some scrubbing with soap and water, his pants are okay, even if it looks like he’s wet himself if he stands in the wrong
light.
His shoes, however? They’re done for.
The orange spray of the soup has colored them, leaving stains with no hope of coming out. Eli knew the risks of buying all-white
shoes and wearing them pretty much anywhere.
He just had to listen to Patricia.
When he steps back out into the restaurant, he takes a moment to spy on Peter, still sitting there. His hands cover his face,
but the way his shoulders are slumped tells Eli everything he needs to know.
He wants to end it here, go back home, hang out with Patricia and Rose and watch a terrible movie.
But there’s something that tugs at his heart when he looks at Peter.
It was an accident, after all. And the shock of the groping was enough to pull him free of any lingering drunkenness that his food hadn’t solved.
He sees Peter’s phone light up again, this time with a message that he can reply to easily via text versus a full phone call.
He types for a bit before he lets the phone fall to the table with a clack , raking his hands along his hair and letting out an exasperated, and clearly frustrated, huff.
“Okay, I’m back,” Eli says, scooting into the booth, noticing that Peter asked the waitress for a cloth to clean things up
himself.
“I’m so sorry, Eli. I can... pay for your dry cleaning or something.” There’s a desperation to Peter’s voice that almost
makes Eli feel like the guilty party.
“It’s fine, Peter. Just forget that it happened.”
“I—” Eli can almost hear the second “I’m sorry” on his tongue before he gives Peter a look, and Peter closes his mouth.
“We have the spicy pork.” The waitress sets down the sizzling cast-iron plate in front of Peter. “And your rice. Careful,
they’re both hot.”
“Thank you.” Peter nods.
“Let’s hope that doesn’t end up in my lap next.” Eli chuckles.
The waitress laughs, taking some of the empty dishes, but Peter just stares at Eli.
“I wouldn’t do that on purpose,” he says, almost sounding offended.
Eli tries to laugh off the blooming awkwardness. “It was a joke.”
“Oh... right, yeah.” Peter doesn’t seem entertained. He just takes the spoon from his silverware set and opens the metal
lid of the rice bowl.
Eli closes his eyes and lets out a quiet sigh, wondering when it’d be appropriate to call this date over. He can’t help but think of the horror movies he’s watched where people find themselves trapped by the psychopath killer simply because they decided they couldn’t possibly be rude.
Of course, that’s an exaggeration. Now that Eli can look at Peter, he’s not sure exactly what he was worried about. Peter
doesn’t look like the kind of person capable of hurting others; at least, not on purpose.
Eli traces his finger around the rim of his glass. He’s not sure where the night could possibly go from here, but he can’t
just leave in the middle of Peter eating, right? He decides to give it until the bill is paid, then they can go their separate
ways. “Did Francine mention what I do?” he asks, since Peter doesn’t seem interested in asking himself.
“No,” he says plainly, chewing his food.
“Well... do you want to ask me?”
“Oh, uh... what do you do for work, Eli?” Peter wipes his mouth with one of the few unused napkins remaining.
“Thanks for asking, Peter.” Eli tries to keep the sarcasm from his voice as he straightens in the booth. “I work at Vent .”
“Like the website?”
“Yeah, the website.”
“You’re a writer?”
“Well... not exactly.” Eli shuffles his feet under the table. “I’m an executive assistant to the head editor.”
“Oh, so a secretary?” Peter asks, and to his credit, Eli doesn’t think there’s anything malicious about how he asks it, but
it sure doesn’t sound as kind as it could have.
“Executive assistant,” Eli corrects him. Even if he knows that’s bullshit, the last thing he needs is for a near stranger to talk down to him.
“Right, sorry.”
“How long have you been in the city?” Eli asks, desperate to skip past any more awkwardness.
“Four years,” Peter says, taking another bite of his still-sizzling food.
Four years? When Eli heard that Peter was new and he wanted to meet people, he thought that Peter must’ve been in the city four months at the most.
And suddenly he feels like such an asshole for thinking that about Peter. He isn’t a douchebag or a jerk, he’s just...
Eli doesn’t really know exactly. He doesn’t want to be an armchair psychiatrist, so he isn’t going to diagnose Peter with
anything, especially after only knowing him for thirty minutes, but the guy seems more than anxious.
A sensation Eli is all too familiar with.
“Where are you from originally?” Eli asks, hoping that questions about Peter’s home might relax him a bit.
“Incheon.”
Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. “Was it nice there?”
Peter looks up, nodding in agreement while he chews for a moment before he admits, “I don’t know.”
“Oh. You don’t know?”
“My family left when I was two. So, I don’t remember it.”
“You said you grew up there.”
“No.” Peter points hurriedly with his spoon, placing the perfect ratio of meat to rice with his chopsticks. “You asked where
I’m from. There’s a difference.”
Eli opens his mouth to reply before he concedes that Peter’s correct. “Okay, so where did you grow up?”
“Comer.”
“Huh...” Eli searches his brain, wondering if he’s ever even heard of this town.
“It’s in Georgia. Just outside of Athens.”
Well, that explains that slight twang to Peter’s voice that Eli picked up on.
“Oh... Well, I’ve also never been to Comer.”
“I’d be more surprised if you had.” Peter swallows a bite of food.
“Well... I grew up in the city,” Eli says, since Peter isn’t going to ask him anything. “Went to San José for school where
I got my journalism degree.” Eli doesn’t just want to hand out his entire life story, but it’s clear that Peter isn’t going
to ask him anything himself. “But I live down in the Castro now. And I’m hoping to get the chance to move up as a staff writer
at Vent —that way I can write about things that actually matter—”
Eli stops when Peter yawns.
He yawns.