27 January

Sand. -n. 1. the more or less fine debris of rocks, consisting of small, loose grains, often of quarts 2. usually, sands. a tract or region composed principally of sand 3. the sand or a grain of sand in an hourglass 4. sands, moment of time or of one's life 5. a light reddish- or brownish-yellow color 6. courage; pluck 7. sleeper -v.8. to smooth or polish with sand, sandpaper, or some other abrasive 9. to sprinkle with or as if with sand 10. to fill up with sand, as a harbor 11. to add sand to

"Y'know, in all dis time we known each other, I don' t'ink I've ever act'ly asked you on a date," Remy stated. He was sprawled across her bed, propped up by his elbow to watch her. Rogue was sitting at her desk chair trying to work on homework. Sure, it was Friday, but that meant she could have all of Saturday and Sunday to herself without having to worry about trivial classes.

Rogue blinked. "Ah thought, an' correct me if Ah'm rememberin' wrong, that you said 'if I were hittin' on you, you'd know.'" She shrugged. "Or somethin' along those lines."

Remy lifted up a finger as if to say "wait." "Not like dat, but close enough t' da tru't. Way I see it, situation's changed. Dat was a make-up talk yesterday, n'est-ce pas? If you t'inkin' dat I owe you explanations, I t'ink our relationship need t' change from 'we doin' alrigh' an' gettin' along' t' maybe somet'in' a li'l more."

"Ah think you're forgettin' that Ah can't touch you," Rogue reminded him. It didn't matter how much she missed human contact.

"Non. I only forgot dat yesterday when I tried t' shake your hand. Dat was dumb." Rogue couldn't disagree with him there. "So, I guess it my place now t' ask you out. Can't say I ever done somet'in' so formal, so I'm not sure what da words would be."

"How 'bout 'will you go out with me?'" Rogue suggested.

"Ain't dat cliché? Dat seems cliché."

Rogue shrugged again.

"Mmmkay. How 'bout tomorrow, I wake you up, an' 'fore anyone knows you gone, I take you some place jus' you an' me. An', 'cause I t'ink dis closer in line with what I said long time ago, you know I won't be makin' no moves on you 'cause if I touch you I end up in a coma. It'll be nice an' civil, but maybe a bit romantic."

"How early are we talkin', Sugah?" Rogue couldn't help the squeak that came out in the last word.

"Nah, don't you worry 'bout dat. Wear your costume f'r da X-Men t' keep warm an' da coat I bought you. Dat's all you gotta worry 'bout af'er I wake you up. No need f'r a alarm clock."

Rogue watched him skeptically to make sure that he wasn't pulling her leg. It seemed a little out of character for him, but this felt out of the blue. "Ah hope you remember that Ah'm a southern gal, Sugah."

"'Course. I'm a southern guy." He had a very good point there. "I still t'ink you'll like what I have in mind, chere." He dropped from his elbow onto his back to put his arms up into the air as if he were painting a picture. "Imagine a beach, ya? Da sun hittin' da waves in da distance jus' right. No one else 'round 'cause it's da middle o' winter an' we'd be crazy if we di'n't have no warm costume, 'specially wit' dat wind comin' right off da water. Sand's a li'l frozen, maybe gone under da snow. Da waves maybe frozen closer t' land. Ain't much dat beats da sound o' water, chere."

Rogue was dumbstruck. "That act'ly sounds nice," she admitted.

"I told ya. Trust me, chere. I can be a good guy f'r you."

"Ah'm holdin' that t' ya," Rogue warned him. She turned around to face her desk. "Ah'll go, but I gotta get my homework done first."

"D'accord."