I spat at him. He reared back.
Kevin Levin is my half-caring, half-rolling-stone half-boyfriend. And he knows it. Which is precisely why I was standing in my bunny slippers and unicorn jammies, freezing cold and without a bra on at 4 in the morning. In the – where else? – Mr. Smoothie parking lot.
About the 'without a bra' part, Kevin Levin didn't do that. I, being diverse, choose to sleep light-chested and not end up having major breathing problems when I try to escape a scorching fire in the middle of the night. Kevin says I have a smart mouth. I tell him that he has a smart ass and that he may also shut up. He usually goes along with it.
Not today.
I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him, blushing. He laughed, not taking his eyes off where my 'over the shoulder boulder holder' should have done duty, and fell down. I sighed, wishing I had the power to make him stop acting like such a lovable jackass.
"Why did you abduct me from my cosy bedcovers to stand here glaring at you in a stony, cold parking lot?" I demanded.
He laughed, his head thrown back, hands on the ground, knees folded up. "You're not real mad. I can tell."
"Well, Why?" I retorted, because it seemed the only reasonable response.
"I was bored."
"What do you want be to do, pole dance for you/"
"No. I'm not that kind of guy."
"Prove it, Kevin Levin."
"Ooh, you called me by my full name. This is serous." He put on a face that looked like a rookie cop meeting a twice-their-size mortician.
"You are impossible!" I storm and march away, head down because it's cold.
Footsteps behind me. I speed up and head up a flight of purple Mana steps. "Aww, c'mon. No fair," came Kevin Levin's slang accent. I'd beaten him. Ha.
Or maybe not. There was a familiar honking – pigeons – and I only had time for a 'Oh, crap," before I was engulfed in a flurry of feathers, beaks, talons, shrieks (hey, that rhymes!), I lost control of my staircase, and I tumbled down to the ground. Into Kevin's arms. I closed my eyes, mumbling, "Don't give him the satisfaction, damn, oh damn it, damn you Kevin, shit, stupid Pigeons," and a few other obscenities before Kevin gave me an unneeded CPR, except for the push-chest-with-hands thing, because he did have some respect.
Maybe I'll do my thesis on that – how can you kiss so long? Do you breathe through your nose? Through gaps at the corner of the mouth? And when you French-kiss – why does it taste like a white-chocolate sundae with Mars Bars crumbled on top?
By then, I think we were both cold, so Kevin fetched a blanket from his car and we wrapped it around and around us, mashing mouths again, until we unrolled and fell asleep.