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“No, that would have been entirely inappropriate,” Summer says with a straight face.
“Well in that case, I’ll keep all boob gropes private,” I say, “go change, dinner is ready in ten.”
Summer leaves the room and returns shortly wearing a sundress with her hair up. I groan silently as I look at how short the skirt is and adjust myself behind the counter.
“Wine?” I ask her.
She nods and I fill up a glass for her. We eat dinner together and make small talk about our day. We unwind from dinner on the couch and I hand her the remote.
“What?” She asks.
“You choose,” I say.
“The man hands the woman the remote, mark this moment down in history,” she giggles.
“I’m not sure that’s what is happening. I think I’m just letting you choose what we watch.”
“I want to watch,” she looks to the ceiling in thought and then has a devilish grin, “the bachelorette.”
“Why do people watch that stuff?” I ask, groaning, regretting the decision to let her choose.
“Guilty pleasures. I think ultimately, we all want to live in that kind of fairytale.”
“Please educate me on how going on a reality show is like a fairytale?”
“Dating sucks. Meeting someone is hard, the show helps with that, and then you have catfights, so you feel wanted, even though it’s pathetic and at the end you have a lot of kisses under your belt, three potential hook-ups and a potential life partner.” She shrugs.
“You say that as if these couples actually end up together.”
“Some do, some try, and some don’t. I think it’s ultimately up to what happens once the tape stops rolling that decides it.”
“And if you and I were in a reality show, what would it be called?” I ask on a whim.
“Hmmm. I imagine it would be something like Survivor.”
“What? That’s just weird.”
“You put me on the spot, I don’t think you and I would be any of these specific shows, but I can see it being something that tests your skills. I think that is what we do for one another, we test, and we solve.”
“That’s the weirdest analogy to dating,” I say.
“Is that what we’re doing?” She asks quietly.
“Dating? I mean, sure. Or we’re at least trying to figure out how to define what this is. I like you, and you like me. We’re best of friends, and we’re going into a whole new facet of our relationship. I think it’s dating.” I reply.
“Okay,” she says, leaning her head back.
“Would you call it something different?” I ask her, pulling her against me with her hand settling on my thigh.
“I think if we wanted to define it, that would be how I would. So, does this make you my boyfriend?”
“Do you want me to be your boyfriend?”
“The last boyfriend that I had, ultimately cheated on me, so I kinda have an aversion to the title right now.”
“Partner, I’m your partner. How is that?”
“I like that.”
