his mama always told him, now, son, you gotta dress up for ‘caisions, alright? don’t be letting anybody think i raised a scrub, as she dressed him up in his sunday best. and whilst he may wear cardigans on his casual days, he makes sure to never wear denim unless he’s on the farm, and suits when he’s meeting with important people. he’d consider a beautiful lady he’d like to date an important person.
he half raises from his seat when he hears her sit down in an attempt to make up for the fact that he hadn’t pulled her seat out. when he sits back down, before she’s even finished talking, he smooths out the legs of his suit pants (a famous designer his sister picked out when she was last over. he tried to pay attention to the label, but was distracted by the price. even to this day, expensive clothing baffles him) and smiles. it’s only when he finds himself listening to the murmur of the restaurant does he realise he hasn’t yet looked her in the eyes.
“you look better than your pictures,” he breathes out. and he whole-heartedly means it. the pixels on his computer really did nothing for the green of her eyes, and messages couldn’t have hoped to convey the way her voice commands (and deserves) attention. “not that— i mean to say that i really hadn’t—” he raises his gaze to the top of the wall behind her head, heat flushing the back of his neck. “forgive me, ma’am. that was forward.”
even when they’d just been innocently chatting about interests and favorite colors and things, britta had somehow anticipated that brian would be, well--not this nice. but, as it turns out, he’s not just nice--he’s like those labels on scented candles that suggest a certain aesthetic you might be going for in your own home. warm cinnamon apple. fresh linen. invigorating lemongrass. soothing lavender.
britta lifts her chin and glances at him, then goes back to thumbing through the plastic-covered menu as she decides what she wants. it’s a pretty nice bar and grill with average prices she’d suggested with the intention of paying for her own meal, but also because it’s a pretty low-pressure setting. after a few dates at expensive places with other men, she’s concluded it’s a fun icebreaker to see if a man will expect neat eating manners from her when she’s tearing into a messy rack of ribs.
“i like forward,” she insists in a tone that’s just as projected as before, smile toothy and aware of itself. “and thank you, i know. so--brian. should we just skip the small talk, or would small talk be easier for you?” either way, his accent is charming, somehow golden. she’d like to keep listening to him speak.
