He smiles, his green eyes crinkling.
For Pete’s sake, he has dimples.
Send help.
“And mean,” I add because I can’t stop myself.
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not a cop, just a concerned citizen,” he says, still dimpling.
I pause. I make myself take a deep breath and think for half a second before I respond.
“And you find me concerning?” I finally ask, tilting my head to one side.
He takes a moment to answer, his eyes narrowing even though his smile doesn’t dim. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was checking me out, but obviously that’s just the Smurf’s Vacation talking.
“It’s a position I’m coming around to,” he says. His voice is low, relaxing, with just a hint of a rasp and a dollop of Southern twang.
Must be a townie, because there’s no way on God’s green earth that he’s a student. I know a whole lot of students, and zero of them are anything like this.
“How, exactly, do I concern you?” I ask.
My chest feels like it’s filled with jello. My palms are damp. I can hear my pulse roaring through my ears.
Some people are born flirts. It comes naturally to them. Talking to an attractive member of the opposite sex doesn’t freak them out. The thought that someone might be interested in them doesn’t invoke a flight-or-fight reaction.
I, on the other hand, am a born not-flirt. Every single time I find a guy attractive or interesting, I wind up sticking my foot in my mouth so hard I leave teeth marks on my knee.
“For one thing, I’m terribly worried over your inability to read simple door signs,” he says. “The one on this door does indicate that it’s for men.”
“Does it?” I ask, opening my eyes wider. “Is that what that funny little picture meant? I thought it was some sort of ancient pictogram, carved by the Paleolithic humans who dwelled here. I was about to report my findings to the Smithsonian.”
Too sarcastic?
Too sarcastic. Crap.
“Thank God I spared you that embarrassment,” he deadpans.
“And yet, you just couldn’t leave well enough alone?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. “I’m just trying to live my life and skip the women’s bathroom line.”
Now he’s grinning. The dimples are very deep, and I force myself to resist the urge to stick a finger into one.
“I’ve always been too curious for my own good,” he says, still smiling, shrugging. “And I’ve never liked letting people get away with things.”
“Things like using a restroom in peace?”
“Things like taking the law into their own hands and skipping a line,” he teases.
I finally break away from his gaze and head for the sink to wash my hands, watching him over my shoulder in the mirror.
“Bathroom lines are the result of misogynistic architecture,” I say. “Meaning that bathroom design is awful for women and fine for men.”
I’ve got a whole thesis to back up this statement, but right now I need to concentrate on getting soap out of this dispenser. It’s trickier than it looks, I swear.
“So you weren’t just skipping a line, you were subverting the patriarchy,” he says.
My chest feels even wobblier, and something tightens in my stomach. It’s not fair of me, but I’m definitely surprised that a man this handsome just said subverting the patriarchy in casual conversation.
“Exactly,” I say, shutting off the water. “When we finally elect a female president, it’ll be because of this moment.”
“So I shouldn’t go through with my citizens’ arrest?” he asks. “I was all set to try and remember the Miranda rights so I could do it properly.”
“And we’ve established that you do things properly,” I say, grabbing a paper towel and drying my hands. “Crosswalks, speed limits, and now Miranda rights.”
I ball up the paper towel and toss it at the trash can.
I miss by about a mile, and of course he picks it up and tosses it in.
Then he rests one hand on the door handle and gives me a brief, up-and-down look that makes me unspeakably nervous.
“What if instead of arresting you, I bought you a drink?” he asks.
I swear there’s a herd of buffalo stampeding through my chest and right over my brain.
“That’s your move?” I say. “You trap a girl in a bathroom and give her an either-or proposition?”
Then I snap my mouth shut because that’s not what I meant to say, that’s nothing like what I meant to say, but I’m nervous and terrible at this.
I’m going to die a virgin, aren’t I?
For the record, I meant to say something like yes, you’re very handsome and also kinda funny and I think I’d like to continue our acquaintance.
His smile fades.
“Sorry,” he says, voice suddenly serious, the smile disappearing from his face. “It’s not a move and you’re not trapped.”
He pulls on the door handle.
The door doesn’t open. It catches with a quiet clunk, and he frowns at it.