Read Sex Kittens and Horn Dawgs Fall in Love for Free Online Page B

wobbly. We discuss the fact that we both hate wobbly diner tables.
    And then, after a few moments of awkward silence, during which we each stir our sweet, spicy tea in slow circles and stare into the milky fortune-teller’s swirls:
    “So, I guess—” begins Matthew.
    “—we should start—” I say, too quickly.
    “With us. Like you said,” he finishes. “You. And me.”
    And right then, our Moonie comes back with the check and we both look at her T-shirt and see the weird-shaped moon pictured there, and at the same time we say, as if we planned it but of course we didn’t,
    “Gibbous!”
    And crack up so very hard.
    Yet another reason why I’m CRAZY IN LOVE with Matthew Dwyer!
    OBSERVATIONS AND DESCRIPTIONS OF
FELICIA’S CRUSH ON MATTHEW, OBSERVED
AND DESCRIBED BY ME, FELICIA!
    When I think about Matthew I sometimes lose track of time and space. For example, I might become convinced that we are toasting marshmallows over a bonfire on the beach on a starry summer night, laughing at jokes that only we understand, when in reality I’m waiting on line at Duane Reade to pay for some contact lens fluid for my mom and Clearasil for me, and register three is open and I’m just standing there like a dork.
    When I think there’s a strong likelihood that I might see Matthew, I become urgently concerned with whether I have hat hair, and how my most recent meal may have affected my breath. Hat hair is not so much an issue in the warmer months, but breath is always with us.
    When I’m around Matthew I often wish I were wearing something other than what I am wearing, though I don’t know exactly what that might be. All my clothes are basically the same.
    The most bizarre aspect of having a crush on Matthew is how it makes even the most ordinary details about him seem unique and perfect. Generally speaking, all boys have hair, eyes, limbs, and speaking voices. Many have hobbies, at least some basic level of intelligence, and a rudimentary sense of humor. But seen through the adoring lens of my crush, Matthew’s attributes in all these areas AND MORE are transformed into the Platonic Ideal of each, and I can accept No Substitutes!
    The Platonic Ideal is a notion taken from Plato, that clever and ancient Greek, that there is basically a perfect version of everything floating somewhere in the big sky of human consciousness. I have just explained this to Matthew, who’s better informed about bunny brains than he is about philosophy.
    “Like Frosty is the Platonic Ideal of a rabbit,” I add helpfully. Matthew looks over my essay again (“Felicia’s Crush on Matthew,” see above). His essay about me, still unread, lies on the park bench next to us. A fierce round of rock-paper-scissors determined that he would read mine first.
    There were no tables at the diner, so we’re in Madison Square Park, bundled in our coats and gloves, with take-out chais from Starbucks. Jacob will be joining us momentarily for his interview, and in the meantime we are exchanging the homework assignments we gave each other on Friday, before leaving the Moonbeam:
    Felicia, Observe and Describe Your Crush on Matthew.
    Matthew, Observe and Describe Your Not-Crush on Felicia.
    Somewhere in the difference between the two, we feel, we will start to pick up the trail of X.
    Matthew peruses my essay with a frowny, serious expression. “Your clothes are fine,” he says abruptly.
    “I know! It’s irrational,” I say. “That’s the whole point.” We each sip our tea. Gluttonous, multicolored pigeons are pecking away at the crumbled saltines somebody threw on the ground in front of our bench.
    “And I wouldn’t even notice if you had hat hair.”
    “Matthew,” I say, sensing his cluelessness. “Haven’t you ever had a crush? It makes your mind do strange things.”
    “I can see that,” he agrees, looking at the paper. “Temporal and spatial disorientation, heightened sensitivity and self-consciousness. Distorted judgment.” He winces. “Is