Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 120189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
And I can’t stop.
It isn’t long before I’m scraping an empty plate, putting every little bit of broken pasta and scrap of meat I can find past my lips.
“Good?”
I lift my chin, alarmed, as if his one spoken word just yanked me out of some trance I was caught in. Ben watches me with his elbows on the table and his chin propped up by his fists. He’s probably been like that for a while, judging from the amused glint in his eyes and the upward quirk of the corners of his lips.
I set my fork and knife down, my face going red. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“Got a bit carried away there.” I wipe a spot on my lips, not sure if there’s sauce there or if it’s my sudden self-consciousness playing tricks. “I’ve … never eaten steak like that before.”
He nods. “It’s a favorite place of mine. I’ve known the owner for years.” He starts cutting another piece of steak, barely halfway through his meal.
I watch for a moment. My hands are in my lap suddenly. I’m wringing them, fidgeting, picking at my nails, chewing on my lip and still tasting the oil from the pasta.
Watching him eat is like an encore of the meal I just downed. Except my mind is going everywhere but the food. His lips, how they move. His jaw, how it works. His eyes, how they savor.
“So,” I exclaim abruptly, forcing myself to talk and fill the silence, “I remember this one time I had steak—I was thirteen, maybe fourteen—and this big piece got lodged in my throat. I didn’t even know what was happening because my eyes were so watered up, everything looked stretched like a funhouse mirror, and I couldn’t breathe. All I could hear was screaming. My mom’s screams. My dad’s yelling. And y’know what I was thinking the whole time? Shut up. I just wanted them to shut up. Really, was the last thing I’d hear in my life going to be the shrill sound of my parents’ screams? I mean, we’re talking the same kind of scream my mom makes when a cockroach scuttles up the wall. So there I was, being screamed at like an insect because I couldn’t properly chew and swallow my dinner. That’s how I was gonna die: choking on a chunk of some dead cooked cow.”
I interrupt myself by bringing a glass of water to my mouth so fast, it splashes my face. Not that I seem to care, chugging away like I’ve been stranded in the Sahara for a month, water droplets letting loose from my chin. I set it back down way too fast—it splashes again—and then I continue rambling.
“One of the thoughts that went through my head—yeah, of all possibly profound things to occur to me during my maybe-last-minute-on-earth—was whether my English paper on Socrates was due that Monday or the next.” I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Socrates. Y’know. I’m choking on dead cow only because I know I’m choking on dead cow, and I am what I know, and blah, blah, philosophy. The irony made me want to laugh, but of course I couldn’t laugh, because I’m choking to death, right?” I’m telling the story with my hands, gesturing in front of me. I’m never like this. Someone hit my nutty switch and I don’t have any red wine to blame this time. “So then my mom starts trying to reach down my throat—no joke, I almost bit her finger off, and then I would’ve been choking on steak and my mother’s finger, what a lovely image that is, and yes, that would have included her diamond wedding ring—and my dad yells at her to back off while he bear-hugs me from behind like a WWE wrestler. My dad squeezed me so damned hard, I could taste my ribcage. Up I went, then back to the ground. Up, then to the ground. Up. Ground. Up. Ground. I started to see stars. And then: boom. Out. Chunk of cow cannonballs over the dining room table like a brown, lumpy pigeon and lands right into the aquarium with a cute plop.”
I press my lips shut when I realize Ben is staring at me, wide-eyed and slowly chewing his last bite, his plate emptied.
After swallowing, he offers me a tiny smile, then quietly asks, “And the moral of your story is … don’t bite off more than you can chew?”
I let out one light, nervous chuckle—thinking about the clubs I headed in high school, my strictly laid-out four-year college plan, my ambitious class schedule, the amount of hours, the credits …
Thinking about Ben, the gorgeous man sitting in front of me. Thinking about being here at all. Thinking about whether I’ve spent my whole life biting off more than I can chew.
Ben, my latest too-big bite of steak.