7

7

Angus

Newton, mid-bite, made a strangled sound. I was about to attempt the Heimlich maneuver when I realized he wasn't choking, he was laughing. He knuckled a tear from his eye and said, "Just this morning I swore I'd never eat another lentil—but, for this, I'm glad I made an exception."

"Exceptions are a lot more fun than rules anyhow."

Newton's brow furrowed. "Well…I could see rebelling against someone else's rules. I mean, at best, they're arbitrary. And at worst, they run counter to your own interests. Like my advisor pushing me to take fewer credits, supposedly to help me focus—when really, he just wants to talk me into grading all his undergrad quizzes. But we've all got an internal set of rules. Without those, we'd have no structure."

He was serious.

Could the two of us possibly be more different?

Although, maybe we weren't. Not entirely. Because day-in, day-out, whether working the register or playing the clubs, I had to endure endless smalltalk, idle chitchat about nothing at all. Sports, for instance. Or even worse, the weather. This conversation was just the sort of thing I longed for—a navel-gazey, thinky discourse of a concept trotted out and examined from every angle. It was a chat that normally ended up with a waitress refusing to warm up my coffee yet again, or the bartender announcing "last call."

Not to mention the fact that he'd referred to AndHedonia as "clever." And not only the name—but the music.

I got jollies just thinking about it.

I leaned in over the table and dropped my voice, like we were sharing a secret. "Showing up on the doorstep of a stranger.... Can't help but wonder—which internal rule were you following?"

Newton's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "None."

"Good. Because I'd rather be the exception."

Even though I'd been angling for it, the kiss caught me by surprise. Forceful. Clumsy. An off-center clash of teeth and a rasp of stubble, wet by a hint of tongue and cooled with a startled intake of breath. Junk mail disturbed by a wayward elbow slid to the floor with a papery rasp and a chair skidded back with a linoleum squeak as we jostled for position. We broke apart, got our bearings, then immediately dove back in for another try.

It was then that I realized the warm tingle playing across my lips was from the chilis, not the kiss. His hand dropped to my knee. A hesitation that might turn into a retreat. But I didn't let that happen. Instead, I grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer yet.

He moaned into my mouth, softly, not more than a breath, and I clambered out of my chair to straddle one of his knees. I'd given him the chair least likely to collapse, and though it let out a small sound of protest, it held.

I clenched the seat back as I angled my mouth against his for another chili-laced kiss.