Are Ethan and I friends?
No. We can’t be. We can’t have any kind of personal relationship or else other people will notice and complain or spread nasty rumors. That’s why I told myself I would take a step back. That’s why I was determined to go sightseeing alone. Yet Ethan insisted on coming along, and now here we are, squeezed under an umbrella meant for one. No place for me to hide. No way for me to run.
There goes all my hard work.
Ethan and I are so close to each other I can smell his minty aftershave. Or is that his breath? If I tilted my head to the right, I could rest it against his shoulder. If I turned it and he turned his head at the same time, our lips would be less than an inch apart.
Forget about friends. Sharing an umbrella in a lovely European city while walking down an old, narrow cobblestone street, bodies huddled, no words exchanged against the pitter patter of the rain – it’s a page straight out of a love story. In fact, I’m pretty sure anyone who saw us right now would mistake us for a couple.
And I almost wish we were. I almost wish we were newlyweds in Zurich for our honeymoon. Then we wouldn’t care what other people thought. Or about the rain. Or about having a tiny umbrella. Or the temptation to kiss.
See, this whole umbrella sharing thing is playing tricks on my mind.
I have to do something while I can still think clearly. I have to get out of this situation before it gets the better of me. What to do?
Just then, I see a chocolate shop from the corner of my eye. It’s one of those that had excellent reviews, too. An answered prayer.
I point to the shop and speak in a loud voice. “Let’s go in there.”
Ethan ushers me towards the chocolate shop. As soon as we’re under the canopy, I break free of his hold. Finally, some room to breathe. As he folds the umbrella and leaves it in the rack, I dry my shoulder as best I can. Then we go inside.
As soon as we step in, I inhale the scent of cocoa. My mouth waters. I see the piles of chocolate on display – dark brown, light brown, square, oval, rectangle, round, heart-shaped, striped, dusted, topped with bits of gold. I swallow.
This is paradise.
“Hello. What kind of chocolate would you like?” the saleslady behind the counter asks me with a warm smile.
I look at the chocolate pieces and I place my hands on my cheek. I never thought I’d be asked such an amazing question or that I’d have such a hard time answering.
“Um…”
“You can taste as many as you like,” the saleslady says.
My eyebrows arch. “Really?”
It sounds too good to be true, but she nods.
“Really,” Ethan seconds. “You can try every piece.”
And I would love to, but that doesn’t seem fair since I’m only planning on buying a dozen at most. Besides, I still want to be able to fit into the dresses I brought with me.
I peer into the glass. So far, all I see are pieces of dark and milk chocolate.
“Do you have any white chocolate?” I ask.
“No.” The saleslady shakes her head. “Sorry.”
“I’m afraid white chocolate isn’t really considered chocolate around here,” Ethan whispers to me.
I give him a puzzled look. What? I’m pretty sure I’ve seen a white chocolate bar with a Swiss name on the packaging.
“Apparently, white chocolate is only made with cocoa butter, not the cocoa bean itself,” he explains.
I nod. “I see.”
Now I feel stupid. I’m sure the saleslady is thinking I am, too, even though she still has her perfect smile on.
“If you’re looking for something sweet, may I suggest a chocolate with a creamy ganache filling?” she says.
“Actually, I think I’ll try one of your caramel-filled ones,” I answer.
I’m pretty sure they have that.
The saleslady offers me a striped square piece on a gold cardboard saucer. I pick it up and bite into it. Almost immediately, the gooey caramel oozes out. A thread sticks to my chin.
I pop in the rest before the caramel gets all over my fingers and my face. I can’t believe I’m eating like a three-year-old.
Ethan offers me his handkerchief. As much as I don’t want to accept any favors from him, I take it and wipe my chin and my mouth.
Well, that was embarrassing.
“Thanks,” I tell Ethan. I glance at his handkerchief, which now has my lipstick on it. “I’ll give it back to you later after I wash it.”
“No worries,” he says. Then he points to his front teeth.
It takes me a second to understand his meaning. When I do, a curse leaves my lips.
“Shit.”
I quickly take my compact out of my purse and look at my teeth. Sure enough, I have a sliver of caramel stuck between two of them. I quickly get rid of it, but the damage to my self-esteem has already been done.