Chibimagic's Weblog

October 2011

Posted on: January 21, 2014

I close my eyes and let the piece of lamb rest on my tongue, savoring its juices as they seep through my mouth. When I open my eyes again, he is doing his thing: flicking the meat, impaled on a fork, back and forth in front of his nose. Almost clinical—the chemistry lab waft we’re taught in high school. Then he stuffs it into his mouth with a sound effect: “Nomnomnom,” he actually says outloud. “I love being rich.”

I smirk at him. He’s full of himself, but in an adorable way. And this meal is delicious. Gloved hands sweep away crumbs and bring fresh utensils with each course. I can taste each listed ingredient on the menu, recited again as they place each dish in front of us. The flavors meld together yet stand distinct as instruments at a symphony. A dinner so good it sparked an obsession with Michelin starred restaurants.

When the lamb is reduced to a small smear of dark brown sauce, they clear away our plates. He holds out his hand on the table for mine and I oblige him. Everything is Very Romantic. At 25, I feel like this is my first Real Date—and I’m a little lost.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velveteen black box. “Happy birthday,” he grins as he places it on the table between us.

Jewelry.

My heart pounds as the panic starts to rise. Shit. We’ve only been dating for two months. It’s too soon for serious jewelry. Oh my god what kind is it. I’m pretty sure ring boxes are smaller than this but I can’t think straight right now. It can’t be a ring. He’s not insane. Is this what people do when they’re 30?

“Open it,” he encourages me.

I reach out slowly, hoping my calm smile is convincing, and steeling myself to express a reasonable reaction to what’s inside. I flip open the top of the box. When my eyes manage to focus on the contents, I find an aluminum pendant staring back at me: a computer power symbol engraved on its surface and embedded in subtle circular grooves.

“And!” he announces, pulling another package from his pocket. “It glows with batteries.” He hands me two sets of button cells. “And you can program it to pulse in whatever pattern you want.”

I can’t stop myself from beaming as I trace the pendant with my finger. Cute, nerdy, and just the right amount of girly. It’s perfect. Panic fades away, replaced by appreciativeness and adoration with only the slightest hint of irrational disappointment. I pull the pendant from the box, insert the batteries, and put it on just as dessert arrives. It pulses at us from between my collarbones for the duration of the last course. It, like the others, is flawless.

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