I reached out with my mind, bypassing the physical world and tapped directly into the lizard brain centers of Chad and Brad (I decided those were their names).
Command: Panic.
Command: Leave.
Command: Confess.
The guy who was walking toward us froze mid step. His eyes went wide. He looked like he had just remembered he left the stove on… in a house made of dynamite.
He spun around, nearly tripping over his own feet.
"We gotta go!" he screamed at his friend. "We gotta go right now!"
"What?" the other guy asked, confused.
"The police!" Chad yelled, diving into the Camaro. "They know! They know about the... the thing! We have to turn ourselves in! It's the only way to save our souls!"
"Dude, what are you talking about?"
"DRIVE!" Chad shrieked, looking terrified.
The other guy, infected by the sudden psychic panic, jumped into the driver's seat. They peeled out of the parking spot, tires screeching, spraying gravel everywhere. They tore out of the drive-in like the hounds of hell were snapping at their heels.
I watched them go.
———
Officer Miller was halfway through a lukewarm jelly donut when the front glass doors disintegrated. The beat up Camaro climbed the curb, deleted a decorative planter and wedged its front bumper firmly into the precinct's reception desk with a screech of tortured metal and a celebratory burst of steam.
Chad and Brad tumbled out of the car like they were escaping a burning building, sobbing with a level of theatricality that would have made a Shakespearean actor weep.
"I'M A MONSTER!" Chad shrieked, throwing himself onto the linoleum floor and sliding toward Miller's boots. "I STOLE A SNICKERS BAR IN 2004! THE WEIGHT IS TOO MUCH! LOCK ME UP! GIVE ME THE CHAIR!"
Brad was currently trying to handcuff himself to a water cooler. "I JAYWALKED ON ELM STREET! I DIDN'T EVEN LOOK BOTH WAYS! TAKE MY LIFE, JUST STOP THE VOICES!"
Officer Miller stared at the wreckage of his desk, then down at the two grown men currently weeping over a stolen candy bar from two decades ago. He sniffed the air.
"Jesus, Lou," Miller called out to his partner, who was reaching for his taser. "Get the narcan. Or the priest. These two are on something I haven't seen since the 70s. I think they've been snorting powdered insanity."
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
"I ONCE TOOK A PEN FROM THE DMV!" Brad wailed, hitting a high note that probably cracked a window in the back. "IT WAS A BLUE PEN, BUT I PREFER BLACK! THE DECEPTION! THE HORROR!"
As the cops piled onto them, struggling to restrain two lunatics who were actively trying to shove their own wrists into handcuffs, Miller shook his head. "Find out what they're on and get the name of the dealer. This is the most productive drug trip in the history of crime."
———
"What was that?" Wanda asked, looking at the dust cloud.
"I think they remembered they have a curfew," I said casually, grabbing a handful of popcorn. "Kids these days. No attention span."
[Gear Stick Dilemma]
The movie started. Dirty Dancing. Patrick Swayze was doing his thing. The music was loud and infectious.
But I was staring at the center console of my car.
Specifically, the gear stick.
It stood there like a monolith. A jagged mountain range separating the driver's seat from the passenger seat.
Why? I asked the universe. Why did I buy a car with a center console? Why didn't I buy a bench seat? The 50s had it right. Bench seats were designed for romance. This? This is designed for isolation.
I wanted to hold her hand.
It was a simple desire. We had held hands earlier. But that was in the field. That was "helping her up." This... this would be "holding hands during a romantic movie." This was a Statement.
My hand was resting on the gear shift knob.
Okay, Aryan, I strategized. Calculate the trajectory. If I move my hand six inches to the right, I'm in her territory. But what if she's not ready? What if she's enjoying the Twizzlers too much?
I glanced at her. She was watching the screen, chewing a red rope. She looked engrossed.
If I reach out and she pulls away, I have to open the door and roll out of the moving car. It's the only honorable exit.
I tapped my fingers on the leather knob.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Just do it. Be a man. You can hold a hand.
I started to move my hand. I lifted it. It hovered in the air for a second, trembling slightly like a claw machine crane that couldn't decide on a prize.
Then, I panicked and pretended to scratch my nose.
Smooth, Spencer. Real smooth.
I sighed, putting my hand back on the gear shift.
[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
Wanda was watching Aryan's hand.
She saw the twitch. She saw the lift. She saw the abort mission to the nose.
She bit back a giggle.
He is overthinking it, she realized, a warm rush of affection flooding her chest. He is calculating the multiverse probabilities of holding my hand.
It was adorable. It was the cutest thing she had ever seen.
She looked at his hand resting on the gear stick. His knuckles were white. He was gripping it like he was trying to strangle the transmission.
He is waiting for a signal, she thought. He is trying to be respectful.
She finished her Twizzler. She wiped her hands on a napkin.
She reached over and placed her hand on top of his.
She felt him jump. His whole body gave a little start, like he'd been touched by a live wire.
He turned his head to look at her, his eyes wide.
She smiled. An encouraging smile.
"Is this okay?" she whispered, though she already knew the answer.
Aryan let out a breath that sounded like a deflating tire.
"More than okay," he breathed.
He turned his hand over, interlocking his fingers with hers. He squeezed tight. His hand was warm. It engulfed hers.
Wanda leaned back in her seat, never breaking the connection. She turned her eyes back to the screen, where Baby was learning to dance.
But all she could feel was the warmth of his palm against hers. The pulse in his wrist beating against her fingertips.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.
It was fast and happy.
She squeezed back.
