There aren't very many cool places nearby, so Audrey asks if I'm down to drive for a bit.

"It's your car," I say. "So I guess it's your call."

"That's right," she says with a smile. "It is my car."

I get into the passenger seat of Audrey's Honda Civic and buckle up. For a while, we just listen to music without talking. From the frantic, blaring horns, I know we're listening to some kind of jazz, which is a strange contrast to the wide-open sprawl of the Texas landscape. I can't be sure, but as we pass one pick-up truck after another on the highway, I get the feeling that we're the only ones on the road who aren't listening to country music. I moved here from New York, but Audrey is a local. Still, it occurs to me that neither of us really fits in.

"Where are we headed?" I ask.

"He speaks," Audrey teases. Then with a smile she adds, "It's OK, I like the brooding, thoughtful types." 

I'm not sure brooding is a part of my game, or if I have any game to speak of, but I like hearing that Audrey likes my type, even if I doubt I can live up to her expectations. 

"I was just listening to this music," I say. "You must've gone pretty deep on Spotify to find it."

"Well, the music is a clue to our destination."

"We're going to a jazz club?" I ask. "I didn't think there was such a thing around here."

"There are lots of hidden, little gems in Texas," she says. "You just have to look beyond all the big macho cowboy bullshit."

There are those words again: big and little. Why does everything always come down to size?

"But no," Audrey continues, "We're not going to a jazz club, because this isn't the 1950s, and we're not beat poets, man."

I'm not sure what a beat poet is, or if they're any different from a regular poet, or why Audrey just called me man. But right there in that moment, I decide two things. First, Audrey is smarter than me. Second, I think that's sexy. I know I can't fool her into thinking I know what she's talking about, so instead I ask the obvious question, "What's a beat poet?"

"Jack Kerouac. Allen Ginsberg."

"I've heard their names, but..."

"Sheesh," Audrey says. "Not very sophisticated for a New York boy. Tell me, what would you do for fun back in New York?"

"Fun?"

The truth is, I'd be at a friend's house playing video games, or watching yet another Star Wars movie for the billionth time. Or reading a Star Wars novel - one from the canon, of course. Pretty much whatever I'd be doing would be classified as geeking-out with my fellow Star Wars geeks. Which is a shame, I realize talking to Audrey, because we were surrounded by one of the great cultural cities in the world, and all we did was retreat into a fantasy set a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.

"Like if you were on a date," Audrey says. "What would you do on a date, Peter?"

"With a girl?"

Jeez, that was a stupid question, and if I wasn't sitting down I'd kick myself. 

"Or a guy," Audrey says. "It's cool if you're bisexual."

"I'm not bisexual. I'm just trying to focus on being sexual."

Suddenly, Audrey roars with laughter. 

"You didn't date much?" she asks.

Much? How about never? OK, maybe never is too strong. For a while, I dated a girl named Jodi from my cosplay group. She was one of two girls who dressed as Princess Leia, but only Jodi had long enough hair to curl it up into those things that look like danishes. Sadly, our romance didn't last long. We made out during The Force Awakens, but by the time Rogue One hit theaters she had left me for some Sith Lord named Derek.

"Here and there," I say. "But I never really had a girlfriend."

"So you were a player?" she asks.

"Totally."

We both know I'm kidding, and so we each share a laugh. It feels good to flirt with Audrey, not just because she's cute, but because I feel like I can be myself. Well, I feel like that way to a point, I remind myself, because while flirting is one thing, I know I can't let things go too far too fast, not until I get things sorted out in the penis department. 

"The music is the soundtrack from a movie called Breathless," Audrey says. "Have you ever seen it?"

"Nope."

"Then you're in for a real treat," she says. "It's Jean-Luc Godard's first film. It's a real masterpiece of French New Wave cinema."

Just the way she says the word cinema makes my skin tingle. I'm not sure I'm cool enough to be Audrey's boyfriend, but I decide right then and there that no matter what, I'm going to love the movie Breathless.

Unfortunately, the movie doesn't make a lot of sense. Part of the reason is the subtitles, which make it hard to follow the story. But the other reason is that the story is so strange. In a nutshell, it's about a criminal who is obsessed with Humphrey Bogart. I'm not sure why he's obsessed with Humphrey Bogart, he just is. And from time to time, whenever there doesn't seem to be much going on in the film, he plays at being Bogart. For some reason, these moments delight the audience, especially Audrey who giggles and swoons at the sight of a goofy French actor pretending to be a goofy American actor. 

At any rate, the movie's plot, such as it is, revolves around the criminal, who starts out by stealing a car and shooting a police officer. At that point, I figured we were in for a crime story like Fast and the Furious, but that's not what happened at all. In fact, his crime isn't part of a larger scheme, which was kind of surprising because what's the point of stealing a car and murdering a cop, if you're not trying to pull off a larger scheme to run away with millions of dollars and save the woman you love? 

What happens instead is that the criminal meets this journalist, who seems to like his Bogart impressions. She agrees to hide him in her apartment, and he spends the rest of the movie trying to seduce her. But she's not that into him. And eventually, she betrays him by turning him into the police. Then they shoot him in the street and he says something cryptic about how she makes him want to puke. It's very French.

But Audrey loves the movie. And over burgers and fries at a nearby diner, she asks me what I think of the ending.

"I don't know," I say. "It's a lot to process."

This is my go-to line whenever an English teacher asks me about the symbolism in a book. Frankly, I've never understood why the people who write these so-called classics don't just say what they mean instead of hiding their stories in symbolism. But saying things like "it's a lot to process" usually gets me off the hook.

But not with Audrey. 

"The first time I saw Breathless, I misunderstood the ending," she says. "The part about wanting to puke."

"Really? I just figured he was sick to his stomach after being shot. Like, oh my god, it hurts so much, I feel like I have to puke."

I clutch at my chest and act out a slow, overly dramatic death scene that ends with me face down on my plate. 

Audrey laughs. Then she points to my cheek and says, "You have a little ketchup there."

I reach for my napkin, but before I can wipe away the ketchup, Audrey leans across the table and kisses my cheek. 

"Yummy," she says. "Ketchup."

The condiment is gone from my cheek, but I'm pretty sure I'm blushing. Then again, Audrey looks a little red in the face too, so it's no big deal. And hey, she kissed me! On the cheek. But it's a start, right?

"He doesn't have to puke because he's been shot," she says. "He says it makes him want to puke. But then Patricia asks the cop to translate and the cop tells her, you make me want to puke."

"What a jerk," I say. "He totally changed the meaning of that guy's dying words."

"Right," Audrey says. "But it's not about the cop. It's about what Michel means by those words."

"What does he mean?"

"He's condemning the world. He's saying it's cruel and meaningless, and it, the world, makes him want to puke."

"Not her?"

"Not her."

"Wow."

"Yeah," Audrey says. "See, Godard is telling us, what I think he's telling us, is that life is a series of accidents, of blunders, that the world is meaningless, that love isn't like what we see in the movies, all romance and happy endings, it's cruel. Because Michel loves Patricia, but she doesn't love him. She betrays him. But then at the end, when he's dying in the street, she realizes that maybe she does love Michel. But by then it's too late, and the real irony is she'll never know how he felt at the end, because the cop lied."

"Wow. That's crazy."

That's all I can say. Because I can't believe that Audrey got all that from the same movie. I mean, maybe she's right. What am I thinking? She probably is right. But how does she know this stuff? 

"You didn't like it," she says. 

"No, I liked it."

"Really?"

"Really."

"You don't have to lie to me, Peter. In fact, I hate liars."

"Honestly?"

"Yes, honestly."

"I didn't get it," I say. "I was confused by the subtitles, and I couldn't figure out why she let him stay with her if she wasn't that into him, and I really didn't understand why she slept with him. And honestly, I thought there would be more car chases and stuff, but it mostly seemed to be two people talking about stuff that I totally didn't get while smoking cigarettes."

Audrey laughs.

"That's an honest answer," she says. "And for that, you've earned yourself a good night kiss."

Suddenly, I can feel my heart pounding. A kiss! A kiss from her! To me! Then all I can think is that it's a good thing I didn't try and sound smart like I do in English class.

We pay the check and as we leave the diner, Audrey's hand finds mine. I'm pretty sure my hand is clammy, but Audrey doesn't seem to mind. In fact, we hold hands for the entire drive back home.

When we reach my house, Audrey pulls to the curb just before the drive-way.

"You can pull into the drive-way," I say. "My parents wouldn't mind."

"But I would."

Audrey puts the car into park.

"I don't want them to see us smooching."

Audrey leans toward me, and I lean toward her. But I've forgotten to remove my seatbelt, so the harness snaps me back before our lips can touch. Thankfully, Audrey has a lot more game. She climbs across the center console, unbuckles my seatbelt, and straddles my lap.

I'm incredibly turned on, but I'm also incredibly uncomfortable. Part of me is thrilled that Audrey is grinding on my lap, and part of me is terrified. Because as she grinds, won't she realize that there's something missing between my legs?

I decide to shift in my seat so that my thigh rises between her legs. With any luck, she'll feel my leg and think it's my dick. I know that doesn't make much sense, but it's also hard to think straight at the moment. 

Audrey kisses me, and I just try to focus on kissing her back. Her lips taste like french fries and some kind of sweet lips gloss. Each time our tongues press together, I feel myself growing harder. Then Audrey pulls away for a moment, catches her breath, and dives back at me. Only this time, she's kissing my neck, giving me little hickies that hurt, but in a good way. 

Suddenly, it occurs to me that my hands have been floating in air this whole time. I didn't want to put them on Audrey because for some reason I thought that would be too forward. But as her hands paw at my chest, I realize that I need to get my hands in the game. So I place my hands on her back and they land right on her bra strap. Not knowing what else to do, I begin to fumble with her bra strap, but as I do that Audrey pulls away from me.

"Not on the first date," she pants.

A wave or relief and disappointment washes over me. On the one hand, I really wanted to remove Audrey's bra. But on the other hand, that thing is complicated. Besides, I remember, if she shows me her's, I'll have to show her mine, and I just can't do that.

Audrey slides back into the driver's seat. In the darkness, her hand finds mine.

"You're not disappointed are you?" she asks.

"Why would I be disappointed? That was great."

"It was great," she says. "But you know, most guys want to go all the way."

"I guess I'm not like most guys."

I'm not sure what that means or why I said it. In fact, those words make me want to cringe because, to me, it sounds like I'm saying, my dick is small and all the other guys have monster-dongs, which I hear you like, because you're a size queen. 

But that's not what Audrey hears. She says, "You're right, Peter, you're not like most guys. That's what I like about you. Now, time for that good night kiss."

Then she plants her lips on mine and I feel an electric jolt shoot all the down to the tip of my penis. I can't be sure if it's Audrey's kiss or Elroy's Chub Potion Number Nine, but I swear that in that moment my dick grows by a quarter of an inch.

👏Thanks for reading!❤️

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