door open, beckoning her in.
“What in all-things-excessive-and-could-feed-a-third-world-country-for-a-month is this?” she asked, whipping to a stop and surveying the car like it was guilty of a capital crime.
I shrugged at the special occasion car I coveted. “It’s a Maserati,” I answered, keeping it simple. Girls, other than my sister-in-law, didn’t care about the nitty-gritty details in the car world.
“A Maser-what-i?” she said, curling her nose at it.
I would have felt insulted for the car if it was anyone but Emma roasting it. “It’s a car. A mode of transportation,” I said, my over-simplification only expunging a crossing of the arms from her. “Will you be getting in it any time soon?” I asked when she took a step back.
“If you’re looking for a means of transportation, ” she threw back at me, “I’ve got this really awesome late 80’s Honda Accord with about 500,000 miles on it we could use”—I had to keep my expression from grimacing—“or this other wonderful thing known as public transportation we could make savvy use of too.”
I moved my mouth, popping my jaw to release tension. This girl was driving me crazy. In every sense of the word.
“What’s your price?” I asked after a couple satisfactory snaps and pops.
“Excuse me?” she said, taking a step forward. Confrontational as it was, at least it was a start in the right direction.
“Your price,” I repeated. “For getting in the bloody car so we can get on with our date. Name your price.”
Her eyes drilled through mine, confirming my seriousness. Silence and a stare was the only thing we shared for almost a full minute—every bit as awkward as you’d think it would be when a gorgeous woman was staring you down while passers-by looked on like we were the latest and greatest reality show to hit the airwaves.
Finally, a smile curled up the corners of her mouth. “If you want me to get in that hunk of junk”—I winced like a bandaid had just been ripped off one of the more tender areas of my body—“I want you to donate as much money as that thing cost to some charity— any charity—by the end of the week,” she finished, smirking at me like she had me and was only waiting for me to pick my poison.
And if forced to make the choice, I didn’t know which one I’d rather drink: a rice rocket on its last leg created in the worst decade for cars ever or sitting sandwiched between the snot and stench lurking in a public bus.
Little did she know, money I had. More than I needed, more than I wanted, more than I knew what to do with, but had it I did and agreeing to donate a million of it to charity was an easier decision than chocolate or vanilla at the ice cream shop.
“Done,” I said, reaching for her hand. “Can we get on with it now?”
“You’re bluffing,” she accused, although she let me guide her into the car.
“I never bluff when it comes to money,” I said, tucking the train of her gown in when she sat down. “And did you miss the conversation we just had a few minutes ago about honesty?” I shut the door after her, feeling a small victory that I’d succeeded in getting her in the car.
As soon as I slid into my seat, she was already mid-way into her sentence. “You’re really going to donate one million dollars this week?” she said, the tone of someone who wasn’t sure if they were dealing with someone who was a royal nutter or a habitual liar.
I sighed, punching the Maserati into gear. I’d feel better once we were in motion and the chances of her throwing herself out of the car if I said the wrong thing were diminished by cruising at some impressive MPHs. “Would you be satisfied if I show you the check first?”
She paused, something she seemed to do as infrequently as I did. It was apparent neither of us was like saint William
“What in all-things-excessive-and-could-feed-a-third-world-country-for-a-month is this?” she asked, whipping to a stop and surveying the car like it was guilty of a capital crime.
I shrugged at the special occasion car I coveted. “It’s a Maserati,” I answered, keeping it simple. Girls, other than my sister-in-law, didn’t care about the nitty-gritty details in the car world.
“A Maser-what-i?” she said, curling her nose at it.
I would have felt insulted for the car if it was anyone but Emma roasting it. “It’s a car. A mode of transportation,” I said, my over-simplification only expunging a crossing of the arms from her. “Will you be getting in it any time soon?” I asked when she took a step back.
“If you’re looking for a means of transportation, ” she threw back at me, “I’ve got this really awesome late 80’s Honda Accord with about 500,000 miles on it we could use”—I had to keep my expression from grimacing—“or this other wonderful thing known as public transportation we could make savvy use of too.”
I moved my mouth, popping my jaw to release tension. This girl was driving me crazy. In every sense of the word.
“What’s your price?” I asked after a couple satisfactory snaps and pops.
“Excuse me?” she said, taking a step forward. Confrontational as it was, at least it was a start in the right direction.
“Your price,” I repeated. “For getting in the bloody car so we can get on with our date. Name your price.”
Her eyes drilled through mine, confirming my seriousness. Silence and a stare was the only thing we shared for almost a full minute—every bit as awkward as you’d think it would be when a gorgeous woman was staring you down while passers-by looked on like we were the latest and greatest reality show to hit the airwaves.
Finally, a smile curled up the corners of her mouth. “If you want me to get in that hunk of junk”—I winced like a bandaid had just been ripped off one of the more tender areas of my body—“I want you to donate as much money as that thing cost to some charity— any charity—by the end of the week,” she finished, smirking at me like she had me and was only waiting for me to pick my poison.
And if forced to make the choice, I didn’t know which one I’d rather drink: a rice rocket on its last leg created in the worst decade for cars ever or sitting sandwiched between the snot and stench lurking in a public bus.
Little did she know, money I had. More than I needed, more than I wanted, more than I knew what to do with, but had it I did and agreeing to donate a million of it to charity was an easier decision than chocolate or vanilla at the ice cream shop.
“Done,” I said, reaching for her hand. “Can we get on with it now?”
“You’re bluffing,” she accused, although she let me guide her into the car.
“I never bluff when it comes to money,” I said, tucking the train of her gown in when she sat down. “And did you miss the conversation we just had a few minutes ago about honesty?” I shut the door after her, feeling a small victory that I’d succeeded in getting her in the car.
As soon as I slid into my seat, she was already mid-way into her sentence. “You’re really going to donate one million dollars this week?” she said, the tone of someone who wasn’t sure if they were dealing with someone who was a royal nutter or a habitual liar.
I sighed, punching the Maserati into gear. I’d feel better once we were in motion and the chances of her throwing herself out of the car if I said the wrong thing were diminished by cruising at some impressive MPHs. “Would you be satisfied if I show you the check first?”
She paused, something she seemed to do as infrequently as I did. It was apparent neither of us was like saint William
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