The Date Experiment

Grass looks very mundane in daylight. You can't guess its magic when your eye just barely notices it there, being all green and framing the day lilies and concrete driveway. At night, though, it has a blue glow to it and you just know it holds secrets.

Lying in it at night, feeling the green and the moist and the cool, it's freeing. Like you are the only thing that matters. That those parts of your life, that English final, what your mother said before you went out, your crappy new hair cut, those just... melt away. No, it's like they never even existed. And even if they did, you're the kind of person that lies in grass at one o'clock in the morning, still tipsy on margaritas, so none of it matters. None of it matters.

I look at the stars, weakened by city neon, through my toes, one leg straight up in the air. I close one eye just to see them framed between my big toe and that one next to it.

"I haven't done this in so long," he murmurs beside me, maybe as awed as I am by the magic.

"Me either. But now I want to do it every night." I point my toes at the big dipper and then let my leg flop back into the grass's coolness.

"Ha ha, you said 'do it'," he chuckles and pushes my shoulder.

"You wish," I scoff and make it awkward.

This is Ben beside me. Ben of the negligible wardrobe, too much cologne, high sharp laugh, twinkling eyes and adoration for all things Bruce Lee. Ben of years of late night dinners at Denny's, road trips to places dictated by dice and maps, platonic back, foot and head massages, and cigarettes while watching the people in the rain. And even before that the Ben of catching grasshoppers in crispy fields, constant detentions and picking the ants off of ants-on-a-log.

Ben clears his throat and nudges my leg with his foot. "So does this feel like a 'date' yet to you?"

"Well, you haven't told me all about your conquests in high school, tried to feel me up or taken twenty phone calls, so it's not like any date I've ever been on," I laugh. Traffic goes by around us, us stretching out on this strange little pocket of grass beside some kind of monument to someone who did something. The lights paint us red and white and orange.

"Well there was Pam and Helen and Jasmine and Kylie and Nicole and, well, we all know about Irene..."

"Irene... right... Wow, I haven't thought about her in..." I'm cut short by a hand clamping over one breast. Instinct makes me brush the hand away more than any real disgust.

"What the fuck, Ben?"

"Now I've tried to feel you up, and, well, succeeded. But I don't get that many phone calls. I could if you wanted me to." He tucks hands behind his head, smug look on his face revealed by a station wagon driving past.

"Well then this is officially a date now," I sigh. "So does it feel like one to you?"

He's quiet for quite a while. But it's been so long that we've known each other, so many stages of adolescence to grudging adulthood, that silence isn't a bad thing for us. We know the rhythms of our thoughts.

Tonight is an experiment. Something dreamed up when we were bored, eating bagels, and on our fourth cups of coffee. Ben was whining about the previous night's date... Trista. He was upset because she hadn't understood the kung fu flick they'd gone to see, that she liked Milk Duds, and that her lips had tasted like cheese.

"She kept asking me why those Asian men were pretending to hit each other," he lamented. "And whenever a guy was on the screen, even if she'd seen him a million times before, she asked 'Oh is that Bruce Lee?'. Like it was going to impress me." He sighed. "I finally told her that Bruce Lee is motherfucking dead. He isn't going to rise from the dead and kick ass in a Jet Li movie."

"Why didn't you wait to take me? You know it's not a date movie, dumbass," I had reprimanded him and swatted his hand with the back of a spoon.

"It was the only one out I wanted to see," Ben had pouted.

"Was it at least good?" I licked foam from my cappuccino.

"So good. We should go."

"I'll get Cherry Blasters," I grinned at him.

"Your lips will probably taste like cherries," he grinned back.

"And how exactly do you plan to find that out?"

"Eh, maybe a dumb idea. Forget I asked." He had shrugged and played with his lighter, watching the flame.

"Ben Parker, did you just ask me out on a date?"

"Huh?" He had tried to look all innocent, but I saw that twinkle. And then his mouth had twitched into a grin.

The rain was heavy outside and I knew we would have to run for his car. It squeaked when you got in it, or did anything else with it. I thought about holding his hand while doing it. It made me smile and feel a little silly. I noticed he was watching me.

"So does that mean you want to?" His look was strange, like he was challenging me.

"Yeah okay. But you better buy me flowers," I told him and wiped cappuccino foam from my lips.

He showed up with tulips. I love tulips.

"I think I need to see if you actually do taste like cherries first," he muses now.

"Probably more like margaritas."

"No, I'm still expecting cherries. You just look like you taste like cherries." He props himself up on one elbow. I do the same and it gets awkward again.

I'm not sure where to look so I look at his arm, draped along his profile. Lean, but with the curve of muscle definition just learning to fit right on his body. He'd been working out and I hadn't noticed until now that it had done anything. It had, in fact, been a bit of joke at him.

He's looking at me, but there's no way I can meet his eyes. That would be too much like looking at him and all these years between us, and trying to fit that into some new category.

"I don't kiss on first dates," I say, forgetting how well he knows me.

He scoffs. "Yeah you do."

"Okay yeah I do," I sigh and look at that nice curve peeking underneath his t-shirt sleeve. He seems to be waiting. A patient wait, but it makes me uncomfortable all the same.

"Will you look at me already, Ella? Gosh," he chuckles and I roll my eyes, pick at a spot on his sleeve.

"Ellllllaaaaaaa," he says in that way that means he's about to tickle me or tease me or jerk the car when he knows my bladder is on the verge of bursting.

"Whaaaaa-aaat," I intone as usual and pick harder.

And then his arm moves and his fingers are under my chin and he tilts it and I'm looking at him.

Blue eyes, lit by headlights, and a grin I've never seen before. It takes me off guard long enough that he can swoop in and place lips on mine.

He leans back and licks his lips. "Yup, cherries." His fingers are still on my chin, and then they stretch out and trace the contour of my jaw and slide into my hair.

"This is weird, Ben," I say but mean something else. This isn't weird. What's weird is the way my heart is beating because of it. His hand falters.

"It is?" he asks and sounds stricken.

"You're Ben," I tell him and mean it.

"Am I really that horrible?" he makes a pained face and drags his fingers out of my hair. Strands catch gold in the street lamp light.

"No, it's just..." I apologize and the spot where his hand was feels cold now.

He lies back, arms flopping beside him.

"Forget it. Just... forget it." I find it strange how defeated he sounds.

"I'm sorry," I say because I don't know what else I can say. I know I don't want to tell him how electric my body still feels from his fingers.

"It's just..." He takes a deep breath. An important breath, by the sounds of it. "I just... I had this notion, this thought that I would kiss you once and you would just know, you know?"

I want to tell him this isn't a movie... life doesn't actually work like that. "Know what, Ben?" I ask dangerously. I really want to know the answer, but I also totally don't.

"Like I said, forget it, Ella. Please." He wipes an arm across his eyes.

I watch him for awhile, and I'm sure he knows I'm watching him. But he's done with the moment, with the grass and its magic.

"We should go," he says and pushes himself up. His shirt sticks to his back. And he reaches a hand down to help me up, which I take. But he walks away before I have my balance and I'm forced to follow behind, watching his shirt unstick from his back. He walks like he does after his mother rags him out. Like he doesn't care, like he's so much more important than what just happened to him, like he can just go and leave it behind and it won't matter anymore.

I let him be that way.

We get to his rusting, yellow car and he opens the door for me because he always does and it squeaks like it always does. But he doesn't look at me when I get in. Explosions in the Sky starts when the car does. He pulls out and drives.

When he drops me off at my place he stops the car and waits for me to get out. I try to hesitate.

"Can we at least talk about...?" I try because it's Ben and he's the most important thing in the world to me, no matter how stubborn he can be.

"I have that client in four hours..." he trails off and examines his nails.

"Fine, Ben. Call me if you decide to stop being an ass, but not before then, 'kay?" I slam the door and it squeals. He drives away quickly.

I sit for quite awhile in the porch swing we shared for so many summers and angry, frustrated tears burn my eyes. It's an ugly feeling and I can't help hating Ben for making it happen.

He doesn't call for five days and I can't remember how long it's been since we hadn't spoken to each other at least every other day. I stare at the phone and hate it, hate him, hate myself. I do angry housework which pleases my mother to no end. I study but retain nothing I didn't already know. I try to write and all that comes out is pathetic whining and cliches. I even go out for a run and destroy my knees in the process. The pain is probably the only worthwhile distraction.

Finally on the sixth day, Friday, I throw out the tulips and agree to go for coffee with Amy from school. She's harmless enough, if a little humourless. But she's sweet and already has coffee for me on the patio.

"I wasn't sure if you liked it sweet or not." Amy displays an array of sugar and sweetener packets. I smile and dump in some plantation sugar even though I usually take it black.

We talk about the environment, Amy's favourite topic, and I try to maintain interest. I really do try. Without realizing it, I walk away to get a second cup of coffee while she's still talking.

Inside it's steamy and smells of wood and damp umbrellas. I exchange pleasantries with Armand, my favourite barrista in the universe. He threatens to take me away from all this, yet again, and I tell him to get off his duff and do it already.

And then I notice, upstairs, not quite in our favourite spot but close, and he's there. I swallow and stroll up the squeaking wood stairs. He notices me when I get to the top and just looks stricken and pale. I pull out the corduroy chair beside him and sit, perched.

"Hey," I say.

"Hey," he agrees.

One thing I can honestly claim is that it has never been uncomfortable between me and Ben. Even that time I witnessed his father slapping him across the face for forgetting to take out the trash, we still found things to say to each other and he trusted me to be there and say the right things. It's like this person beside me isn't Ben. I want to tear my hair out just to make that Ben come back and occupy this skin beside me that's not looking at me.

"I guess we're not okay yet." The words are dragged out of me.

"Guess not," he agrees.

"God damnit, Ben," I punch the air with my words and stomp away, leaving my coffee there, leaving Amy there.

And I walk. I walk a long time. My knees aren't very happy with me, and then my feet are even less happy. The only thing I can think about is that I have no idea how to live my life without Ben.

It starts to rain. And here I forgot my umbrella. The streets puddle with light as the sun sets. I feel the rain flow between my fingers as I walk. I can't remember being this drenched before.

It's when I get to a corner store and see the flowers there, the tulips that I realize I've been crying. My throat hurts so bad with trying to hold it in that I can't swallow. I reach for my phone and text him because I don't know what else to do. All I say is where I am. I wait and make myself stay in the rain even though there's an awning a few feet away, because I don't want to feel better. I probably don't deserve to feel better.

I wait there for ten minutes and his yellow car squeaks to a halt in front of me. The door creaks and he pushes it open, sits back. I can't help but wait another minute before I get in because it's going to feel so very fucking crowded in there. He's still listening to Explosions in the Sky. I get in and am grateful for the heater that he had fixed last winter finally.

I turn up the music and lean my head back, watch the wet streaking lights of the shops as he pulls away.

I don't know how to fix this. It's not the old, it's not the new... it's some broken version of in between.

"Can we go to that spot?" I don't like how meek and apologetic I sound.

He sighs, lights a cigarette, inhales and puffs into the steering wheel. "Yeah okay."

I take a cigarette too and watch the smoke suck out into the rain through the crack of window. We smoke as he drives and parks.

I think I surprise him when I get out of the car, rain pelting, and go to sit on our picnic table overlooking the inlet, the ships, and the black strip of land beyond. My wet body gets even wetter, and my cigarette is quickly rendered useless. I chuck it away and puff steam out of my mouth instead, wrapping drenched skin around myself. I hear the rain on him when he approaches, sighs and sits beside me.

"I'm so sorry for fucking this up, Ella," he tells me and I hear the regret like a weight. I remember licking green popsicle juice from my chin, sitting on my parents' porch swing, waiting for the moment we could run through the sprinkler and scream to make the mean neighbours scowl and the nice ones smile and recall their youth.

"Who said you fucked anything up, Ben?" I ask and this time look at him, at his eyes under wet hair and eyelashes.

And then I do know. I didn't need that first kiss to know, or this week of torture. I just needed this look he was giving me now. Eyes squinting against something he can't bear, looking like he hasn't slept in a week, and yet still looking at me because I'm what he wants to look at. Even soaking in the rain.

"I don't think I know how to be around you anymore, Ella," he admits and his voice catches.

Terror brushes my heart like icy fingers. "You can't go, Ben. Fuck that. No, I won't let you go."

"I can't pretend anymore, though." His glare is getting mean, but I know it's because he's put up his walls. "Please don't make me."

"It's that bad?" I ask him, truly curious. He nods and looks away.

"Well it's not my fault! I didn't ask for this! Things were so good, so perfect. Ben and Ella, BFF. I was going to be your best man. You were going to be my maid of honour. You know, perfect! Like it's always been, god damnit!" I'm yelling now and I hate yelling. It makes my throat clamp up and I cry and my face gets all red. "Maybe you did fuck things up." I whisper finally and choke down a sob.

"Well fuck you!" he snaps back. Ben hardly ever gets mad at me. Not the angry sort of mad, just the annoyed sort. "I'm sorry for being that guy who spends more time with you than I do on my own! I'm sorry for always being there when you needed me! I'm sorry for remembering every single little fucking occasion you ever think of celebrating! I'm sorry for reading every word you've ever written!" he rages and sputters rain at me. "I'm sorry for all this time... all this fucking time. All this... time...." he chokes these last words quietly.

I just stare at him because I have no defence.

"You can't have all of me this way any more, Ella. I just can't do it." He looks broken standing there in the rain.

I broke Ben. All these years and I thought things were perfect and all it was was perfect for me. I feel so selfish, because even now I don't want him to go. Can't let him go. He can't go. I stand and approach him. When he's close I feel his warmth like a halo around him. And I need that warmth and I can't imagine not having it.

"I think I need you to kiss me again, Ben," I say softly, unable to look at him. I just stand close, sniffling. When I finally look up his eyes are hard and I'm terrified he's already gone. "Please, Ben."

He seems to blink something away and then his hands are cupping my face and his lips crush mine. This time I kiss back.

It's the kind of rain drenched, urgent kiss you only see in the movies. Being in it is all heart beating wildly, clothes sticking coldly, wet fingers growing icy, and body feeling like it can't stay still for even a second because I just want more and more and more of this kiss.

When we stop we're both panting, breath a fog between us. I can't believe I didn't see this before in his eyes or feel this before in my chest.

We get back into the car and the windows steam up quickly just from our wet bodies, hot from nervousness and all that kissing. He starts the car and pulls away without a word. I reach for his hand and he holds it, tightly like he's scared I'll try to take it back.

When we're back at his place I know there will still be the pizza boxes and beer bottles from last Friday on his counter and most of the lights will still be on. We get on the elevator holding hands and not looking at each other. When he unlocks his door I touch his back and he shivers.

Before I can blink or breathe, he's pushed me against the wall and kicked the door shut. I squirm between him and the wall when he kisses me, my lips, my throat, that little spot behind my ears that makes my knees get all weak and wobbly. In a shuffle of feet, shedding of shoes, and almost tripping over rugs and remotes we make our entwined way to the sofa. Ben's sofa, such familiar smells and soft spots and sagging parts.

We sat there just last week, watching a black and white and eating pepperoni supreme. He was rubbing my foot in between sips of beer and bites of pizza that I fed to him.

"Still up for tomorrow?" he asked, squeezing my heel.

"You know all of my excuses, so I can't really get out of it now," I chuckle and watch Cary Grant look debonair and awkward all at the same time.

"True. No one's in the hospital that I know of."

"So tomorrow I get to see just how many of these springs have sprung, I guess." I bounce in my seat, which squeaks and protests.

"Oh I'm having those repaired tomorrow just for the occasion," he told me, that twinkle in his eyes.

"On my account? I'm honoured." I poured some beer into his mouth.

"I hope you're worth it," he admitted and clucked.

"Damn right I am," I told him and we watched the movie and bullshitted.

We fall onto the sofa together now and it squeaks and protests.

"Sorry, I didn't get it repaired really." His wet hair falls in his eyes and somehow it makes me swell with something that feels like pride, lust and memories all at the same time.

"Too bad cuz I am worth it," I tell him and grin. He flushes and shifts to fit himself against me, fingers playing in my wet hair, thumb brushing my cheek.

"Do you have any idea how fucking beautiful you are? There I said it. Been keeping that one in," he admits and bites his lip.

"I... like hearing it. What else you been keeping in?"

"Oh no, not yet. You don't get all my secrets that easy."

"Come on, one more. I can take it," I challenge him.

He ponders for a long moment, thumb still stroking my cheek and my hair drying softly in his fingers. "Do you remember, a couple of months ago, Brad's party? You wore that blue dress, even though no one else dressed up."