IKEA
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First of all, I don't want to hold hands in here. I've told Dorian this six times so when I feel his fingers pulling at my palm again, I tell him with my elbow. That works, at least until the next time.
This place is teeming with people. When I stand still, I can feel the floor tremoring under my feet from the masses. We're here for a dining room table and a few cheap end tables, so I cannot understand why we're milling through the sofa section like free-range idiots. We've been in this Swedish shit-shop for two hours and I've yet to see one thing we came here to buy.
Dorian is content to people-watch and stroll lazily through the crowd. He points to a hideous sofa, suggesting that it would bring some much-needed color to the living room. "Yeah, the color of my puke," I reply and get one of those frustrated little looks. I fucking live for those looks.
When we finally make it to the dining room table section, I've just about reached my limit. Dorian gets a serious look on his face as he scans the room for the perfect table. I know he has a 3D rendering of the apartment and can easily hone in on the ones that will suit the space perfectly. I catch my bottom lip in my teeth and look around to determine how embarrassed I should be when he wants us to sit at a table and make sure it "feels right." Actually, sitting down sounds nice right now so I oblige.
Our knees knock under the table. "Not this one," Dorian declares, dismissing the narrow furniture. He rises and abandons me.
From my uncomfortable post, I watch him hunt the room. He stops at each table in turn, passing judgment, courteously dodging other shoppers. It's so important to him, I realize, that we bring home the right thing. I feel a pang of guilt for not taking him somewhere nicer to shop, but this is where he wanted to go.
He finds one he likes and sits down, looking in my direction expectantly. I join him, peeking at the price nonchalantly. Holy shit, that's cheap. I'll buy him two if he wants.
It's roomier than the last. I can tell he likes it the way he's looking at it, inspecting the corners. He scans the holographic tag and copies the call number. I've memorized the patterns of those blue lights tracing his face but they still transfix me.
He runs his hand across the surface of the table and I catch it, hold it with both of mine. He squeezes back and looks up. The whole world buzzes and shakes around us, bodies moving and shoving, chattering and coughing until there is just a general sense of noise. I pull his hand up press my lips against the knuckle of his thumb.
"What do you think?" he asks.
"Perfect."
