Page 48 of Fangs with Benefits

‘Molly,’ I start, ready to tell her just how much kissing her turned me inside out, when our waitress steps up to the table to ask how we’re getting on, if we liked the food, if we want the check.

I offer the woman my plastic bank card and she disappears to the back. ‘You didn’t have to get it. You didn’t even eat anything,’ Molly says.

‘I invited you here, no?’ A date, I don’t remind her.

‘Right.’

When we get outside, the sun has set wholly. Molly peers up from under the brim of my cap, which is still on her head, her light eyes questioning what I’ll do next.

‘Can I walk you home? Or to your train?’ I ask. Anything to talk to her a little longer. Now that she knows the one thing I was set on keeping from her, I’m reluctant to see her go.

‘All right.’

The walk isn’t far, just a couple of blocks from the Thai restaurant to her building’s front door. We are quiet as we walk, me waiting for her to say something more about the kiss, or to ask me another question about being a vampire, or to tell me she’s changed her mind and actually doesn’t want to see me ever again. But she stays quiet, our sides lightly bumping each other as we walk around people, a hot dog stand, some post boxes.

When we get to her building, she halts to the side, out of the way, and points at it. It’s a tall, red brick apartment with fire escapes ornamenting the side. I want to know which window is hers, want to peer inside and then poke around in every drawer. I want to know how she keeps her home, her kitchen, if her bed is made or not, if she has a pair of slippers or a robe she wears in the winter months.

‘Thanks for the dinner,’ she says.

‘Of course,’ I say, still distracted by thoughts of her home. Does she have roommates? Pets? I imagine a cat roaming around, brushing against her ankles when she goes inside.

‘We can’t date,’ she says abruptly, drawing my attention completely. ‘I can’t, I mean. I’m on a dating hiatus. Plus, our lives aren’t really compatible.’

‘You mean because…’

‘You’re immortal? And I’m not,’ she says.

‘Sure.’ Not the basis for a sound relationship, if my past experiences are any example. She nods, and I do, too, standing across from each other stiffly, not touching, while passersby trek down the sidewalk near us. ‘I agree.’

She bites her lower lip, on the precipice of saying something, and I wait, eyes fixed on where her teeth are pressed.

‘But that doesn’t mean we can’t hook up sometimes,’ she says, after a deep breath and exhale. ‘In a strictly no strings attached arrangement.’

‘Hook up,’ I say slowly. I know the meaning of the words, casual intimacy, no commitments to one another. I’ve been alive for a long time and I’ve had many supernatural partners without expectations of fidelity. And I know times have changed for the humans–fewer austere notions of modesty and intimacy–but I still can’t grasp what this would look like for us. ‘How do you mean?’

‘If in the process of me showing you the ropes of appearing human we occasionally, and consensually, hook up, then no harm no foul. We are physically compatible and maybe a little touch-starved. You won’t fall for me, I won’t fall for you, eventually you’ll get me my promotion and probably get bored of corporate bureaucracy, and you’ll move on to the next thing.’

‘No harm, no foul,’ I repeat and she nods.

‘Exactly.’

‘And what will you do? When I move on?’ I ask. I foresee many problems with this plan, not the least of which is her belief that I have any control over my feelings.

‘I’m still figuring that out. I’ll start with the promotion, go from there,’ she says. I’ve had the inkling that Molly doesn’t love this job, despite her aptitude.

‘And will we tell anyone?’

‘Preferably not.’ Molly purses her lips. ‘And if they ask, we say we’re friends.’

‘Friends,’ I agree, the word feeling like sand in my mouth. I’m not sure why, when one week ago Molly calling me her friend would have lit up my insides like a Christmas tree. Now it feels hollow and incorrect, ill-fitting. ‘Friends who hook up.’

‘They call those friends with benefits,’ she says, and it makes me laugh. She scrunches her nose, but smiles, too. I take a decided step closer, crossing the line of polite personal space. She has to drop her head further back to meet my eyes, and when she does, I inch closer still.

I hold her chin between my thumb and forefinger, then flip the hat backwards on her head. She looks unbearably cute like this.

‘Forgot I was wearing that,’ she says.

‘You can keep it,’ I tell her as I lower my face to hers. She doesn’t pull away. ‘Please keep it.’