Disclaimer: In case it is not clearly stated in the narrative, everyone in this chapter engaging sexual activity is at least 18 years of age.
Note: This is written in British/South African English, although almost all similar media I consume is American, so that will have its influence too. For the sake of keeping the note short, I'll post a comment to explain my use of language and obscure terms, if anyone asks or I think of something in particular.
***
"I promise it's not as bad as it looks." He put his hand on my leg, smiling confidently, and giving my thigh a quick squeeze.
With him touching me like that, I was just about ready to tell him he could have taken me to a cemetery, or an abandoned warehouse, and I wouldn't have minded so much. But I was struggling to speak, so I just smiled and nodded.
We'd driven for about half an hour, up the coast to a little resort town called Avalon. Our neighbourhood -- Blue Mountain Beach -- had anything you could ever possibly want or need within walking distance, whether it was restaurants, bars, shops, malls or cinemas. Most people usually didn't bother driving anywhere else other than into the city, where things were even bigger and brighter.
But Avalon was much more rustic and charming. My mom loved it, anyway, so I'd been here before quite a few times with my family. Where we came from, originally, you always had to drive a long way to get anywhere interesting. Avalon was about as much of a tourist trap as Blue Mountain Beach -- both faced Table Mountain across the bay, after all -- and having come from inland, we were still tourists at heart.
He'd directed me to an ugly little box of a building that cantilevered out into the water, the seaward side propped up by a grid of sturdy pillars that held it above the rocks and waves, as if the architecture had somehow justified the effort. We'd parked in the basement, underneath the portion of the building that rested on the shore. The exterior had looked very run-down, and so far the interior was looking even worse -- damp concrete, leaking pipes, flickering lights and faded paint.
Eric took his hand off of my leg, and unbuckled his seatbelt. "My mom and I used to live around here, so I'd always come to this one restaurant."
"Okay." I managed to speak, barely, now that he'd stopped touching me and turning my brain to mush. So it was sentimental. I had wondered if we'd gone somewhere so far because we'd be less likely to bump into anyone there. Not that I'd have a problem with that -- it wasn't as if I was out, or wanted to be. But it seemed nice to think that we were here for purposes other than hiding.
I got out of the car, and followed him through the cold, damp basement. We made our way past an exhausted looking security guard, and into an elevator that had clearly seen better days. He selected the floor, flashing me a grin that could have been slightly nervous as the elevator shuddered upwards, and we stood silently in the flickering fluorescent light. The doors opened with a loud clatter, and he led the way out.
The whole place actually was a bit nicer on the inside -- bright lights and signs at the front of a supermarket and a pharmacy lit up the open-aired courtyard, and there was a collection of other smaller stores, all closed down for the evening. They sold things like antique furniture, artisanal foods, and of course, a few which had made an effort to cram themselves full of anything you could possibly want to take to the beach. We made our way down toward the portion of the building that stuck out over the water, and Eric led me into a restaurant right at the end.
It had a fairly clean, modern look. There was a lot of whitewashed wooden furniture, decorative pieces like mirrors made from driftwood, and copper piping formed into quirky, industrial lighting. Like most places in this town, it had an atmosphere of not trying too hard -- a kind of easygoing confidence, as if they knew that the rush of holiday-makers in the heavy tourist season would get them through the rest of the year, and then some. It looked like it was only at about a third of its full capacity, which was still pretty good, considering that Avalon was pretty much a ghost town at that time of year.
A cheerful waitress with dark, curly hair greeted us eagerly as we walked in.
"Table for two?" Eric asked.
"Of course," she said. "Sit anywhere you'd like. I'll get you some menus."
Eric confidently marched his way to the far end of the restaurant, which was slightly less crowded, and I followed in his wake. We wove our way into the back until we reached the windows, and he indicated a small table, tucked behind a pillar. I took the seat against the glass, enjoying the muted sound of the breakers hitting the rocks below me.
He hovered above his chair, gesturing at the ocean behind me. "You don't want the view?"
"No," I said. "I like to face the room. Watch out for marauders."
He laughed, and sat down. I grinned sheepishly. It wasn't entirely meant as a joke -- people walking around behind me had always stressed me out. I'd sometimes jump when waiters did that annoying thing when they popped up at your side, as if from nowhere. But I didn't know how to tell him that without sounding like a total disaster, so I didn't elaborate.
"I just offered, because I already have something better to look at."
I blushed, and once again I wasn't sure what to say. If he kept doing that to me, this was going to be a very one-sided conversation. I was saved from the necessity of replying by the arrival of the waitress, who handed us menus, rattled off a number of specials, and took our drink orders.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah, fine. Why?"
"You just seem a bit uncomfortable."
I laughed nervously. "Right. Sorry. First date."
"Ever?" he asked incredulously.
"Yeah," I said, slightly annoyed at his tone.
"Sorry, I didn't mean... I thought maybe you'd taken a girl out before."
"No." I shrugged.
"Okay." He settled back in his chair, smiling. "Well, it's not a big deal. You just chat, and ask each other questions."
"About what?"
"Well, stuff that lets you get to know each other. Favourite movie, favourite book, favourite colour, that sort of thing."
"That doesn't seem very efficient."
"I don't think efficiency is the point." He grinned.
"Oh, right." I thought for a second. "Okay, what's your favourite book?"
"Uh, I'm not sure. I liked the Harry Potter books."
"I loved Harry Potter. It got me really into reading when I was a kid."
"Yeah, I only finished reading them last year. It took me ages. I saw your bookcase. Have you read all of those?"
"Mostly, yes. Maybe not one or two, but most of them."
"Which one's your favourite?"
"I don't know." I said, drawing a blank. "That's like asking me to pick a favourite child."
"I hear that's difficult." He chuckled. "Do you have a favourite author?"
"I'm not sure." I racked my brain. "I guess... It's a little trashy, but I really like Stephen King and Anne Rice. I'm also in love with this series by Terry Brooks, Shannara-something. It's an amazing high fantasy series, but it also has a few books with a post-apocalyptic real-world thing, and that all links together. It's kind of brilliant, and there's so many of them. Oh, wait! My favourite author is probably Diana Wynne Jones. She wrote a whole series of books about magic set across this weird multiverse, and they're all great."
"Wow."
"Sorry." I blushed. "You did ask."
