We finish the short walk to where the sand starts, and the second we arrive, I pause our movements to wiggle out of my nude heels. Hot sand caressing the soles of my feet causes me to hum in happiness, and the sound seems to further soften the man who may be more sensitive than I wanted to give him credit for.
The two of us walk a good distance with nothing more than the symphony of crashing waves accompanying our silence. Strangely enough, it feels different than it did in the car. This stillness feels almost serene.
Like stubborn souls finally calling a ceasefire to perhaps sign a peace treaty.
Gusts of ocean breezes continuously push us together, and Benicio eventually abandons the “gentlemanly” structured action to wrap an arm around my shoulder to provide the smallest bit of shielding from the wind. The protective nature thoughtlessly receives another happy hum that again shifts a shy small to his face.
I have no problem admitting I feel safe in his arms.
That it’s a good thing to feel this way.
That there’s only one other pair I’ve ever felt this way in.
I’m tempted to ask how many women he’s held like this in the past, but like I already said. I know better than to ask questions I don’t want the answers to.
Finally, Benicio veers us the direction of the only food vendor that appears to be open at this time of night. Considering we’re almost two hours from where we both live – assuming his driver did the speed limit – I’m surprised we’re getting to eat anything that isn’t fast food.
Huh.
Wonder, has Mr. High and Money ever actually had fast food?
“Oh, I definitely want a jalapeño and cheddar one,” I hear the woman in front of me coo to the man she’s holding hands with. “Extra jalapeños on top, please.”
He peers down at her with an amused grin. “How do you have any feeling left in your mouth with all the spicy shit you eat?”
“You’re just jealous you can’t handle the heat.”
“I don’t know,” the blond, surfer-looking male brushes off. “Pretty sure I handle you just fine, babe…”
Their flirting is interrupted by their turn to order, and I redirect my attention to the array of photos displaying multiple variations of more or less the one dish they offer.
“Hotdogs?” I callously question. “You…drove me two hours from home to treat me to…a hotdog?”
“Bratwurst. Grande differenza.” Benicio’s grip falls from my shoulder, instantly creating an unexpected emptiness. “Big difference.”
“Enlighten me.”
“It’s primarily about the ingredients and how they’re prepared,” he explains just as the couple in front of us pays. “Bratwurst are typically always going to be fresher, courser in texture, and better in taste.”
“So, they’re basically just the snootier hotdog?”
“I would say superior.”
“Of course, you would.”
Benicio lets out a small chortle. “A snootier hotdog, as you put it, would be frankfurter, which is still infinitely better than a disgusting snotdog.”
“Snotdog?”
“The shit you have the audacity to compare a brat to.”
I can’t help the light laughing, “You’re a food snob!”
He shoots me a sarcastic stare. “You don’t run a multibillion-dollar meat-based business by being easily satisfied.”
“Then how do you explain Oscar Mayer?”
“He was a traitor.”
Benicio’s off the cuff answer receives another laugh proceeded by a hand movement to usher me forward. The pair that was in front of us steps to the side to watch the small, bald, thick-mustached man piddle around the space creating their requested meals. I oscillate my stare between their adorably wrapped in one another behavior and his overly theatrical performance of putting together what I cannot imagine to be a complicated creation.
After they’re settled with their entrees, he returns back to us and joyfully greets my dinner partner with a wide grin. “Beni!”
His tone matches in warmth. “Ferdinand.”
“Es ist lange her, seit ich dich gesehen habe.”
“Ja.”
What is that?
Is that…German?
He speaks fucking German, too?!
Ferdinand’s goofy grin remains. “Warst du so beschäftigt?”
“Ja.” Benicio pauses before reluctantly adding, “Mein Vater ist letztes Jahr gestorben. Es liegt in meiner Verantwortung, das Geschäft zu führen. Du verstehst das.”
Ferdinand’s expression falls prior to him slowly nodding. “Ja.”
Despite having no clue what it is they’re actually saying, the shift in tone implies something sad was said by Benicio yet understood by Ferdinand.
Maybe the death of his father?
God, am I gonna have to break out my app to survive this date?
Um…dinner.
I. Meant. Dinner.
Only dinner.
Only this one dinner will be what I write about on a personal level regarding me and Benicio.
Ferdinand’s stare steals a small glimpse of me, and his smile swiftly returns. “Sie ist schön.”
“Ja.” Benicio’s glare grows darker. “Und für alle anderen tabu.”
Ferdinand chuckles at the same time he surrenders his hands.
Just as I’m about to ask what’s being said, Benicio drops his gaze to me. “What would you like?”
“To know what you two are talking about.”
He fights his instinct to smirk. “To eat.” I prepare to give the pictures another glance when he goads, “Apparently, my taste is too profound for you to trust.”
His mocking causes my jaw to drop in shock and amusement. Benicio’s smug smile flourishes forcing me to playfully fight back, “You know what, Beni…” A deliciously low growl hits my ears threatening to have me change topics, “We’re in the wonderful world of meat. I’ll let you lead. After all, you’re the expert here.”
Skepticism instantly settles into his stare.
“But if I hate it, we will be finding somewhere that serves hotdogs, and you will be eating one.”
He sneers at the idea alone, which sends me into a fit of giggles. “You’re a cruel woman.”
“I’m a fun woman.”