Shaking my head at him, I dive into my own bowl and take a bite, glad to find that the temperature doesn’t singe my tongue off. Flavors explode in my mouth. “Oh shit,” I say. “I didn’t know there were so many tastes!” I say excitedly, as I sop up the stew in the flatbread that it came with.
I’m starving, since my vegan sandwich just didn’t cut it earlier, so I keep shoveling more in my mouth before I can even swallow.
It’s right around bite seven that my taste buds catch up with me.
My spoon falls with a clank into the bowl like an A-bomb being dropped to the ground. A mushroom cloud of red stew burbles up, almost in slow motion, and nails me in the face at exactly the same time that my mouth drops open and a frenzied shriek rips from my throat. “Oh shitfire whiskey, that’s hot! My mouth!”
Panicked, I jump to my feet and start running around, as if the wind at my flapping tongue is somehow going to put out the invisible fire currently burning my mouth.
Tears stream down my face, and in my blurry hurry, I run into a belly dancer, who then runs into a waitress, who then runs into a table and sends food and pillows flying across the room.
People scream. Dishes break. Food splatters. The sound effects are very dramatic.
I land reverse-starfish mode this time, the breath stolen from my chest as I hit the floor. Boogers, tears, and fiery saliva drip out of me, and I feel a definitive draft down below from where my dress flipped up.
Oh. My. Gods.
/> I try to get up, but really, what’s the point?
This is the most embarrassing moment of my second life, and I’ve only been alive for, like, nine hours. This is not a good start.
Someone hauls me up by my arms and helps to pull my dress down again, and then I’m sat down on some pillows. A paper napkin gets brushed over my face, cleaning the food off me, and then I feel the metal of a spoon touch my lips. My mouth is already open, my poor tongue waving around like a white flag trying to surrender.
I don’t even feel what gets shoved into my mouth for a few seconds until something cold and sweet coats my tongue. At least I think it’s sweet, but my taste buds just burned off, so who really knows?
After the fourth bite gets shoved into my mouth, my tears finally dry up enough for me to be able to see that it’s Warren sitting in front of me, holding a bowl of ice cream as he spoon-feeds me.
He pauses when he sees me come out of my spice coma. “Better?”
I nod numbly. “Behhaar,” I slur, without the use of my tongue. It’s still hanging out of my mouth like I’m a panting dog.
“You okay, girl?” Blue asks, kneeling next to me.
“Cannn heell eyyy hunnnngue,” I tell her.
“Bet you’re missing that vegan sandwich right about now, yeah?” she asks with a smartass smirk.
I want to curse her out, but my tongue is still down for the count, and I don’t want to make a bigger scene than I already have, so instead, I flip her off like a lady.
“You’re a vegan?” Harvey asks her, like he’s mildly disappointed.
She straightens up, full of attitude, and perches her hands on her hips. “I don’t eat things that have feelings,” she says with defiance, as if she’s just daring him to counter.
“No?” he asks, leaning closer to her with heat in his eyes. “Well, I love nothing more than to eat out red-blooded women and let their feelings drip all over me.”
Wow. That was really dirty. And honestly, pretty clever.
Based on the way her eyes dilate and she shifts on her feet, Blue looks like she’s about ready to be converted.
But our belly dancer slash waitress comes over just then, interrupting Harvey’s moment. I look over as two additional men come walking up behind the waitress like they’re ready to kick my ass for making a mess in their restaurant.
I scoot closer to Warren until I’m practically in his lap, because those dudes look scary. I nearly knock the ice cream bowl right out of Warren’s hands until he steadies me with his hand on my hip.
“Horrry. Ihht waaa an ahhidenn,” I tell them. Well, I try to anyway. I’m not sure anyone can understand me. My tongue is still in revolt.
Arms crossed, lips pursed, they continue to glare at me with clear disapproval. “I’m going to have to ask your party to leave,” the belly dancer says, her lips thin and angry.
“Apologies for the mess,” Warren says smoothly, before standing and pulling me up with him.