𝐆𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐒, adam banks (✓)

08. ails and shrimp cocktails

❛ ━━･❪ ❁ ❫ ･━━ ❜
chapter eight: ails and shrimp cocktails

tw(s): slight anxiousness, but none really
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★ ━━━ "HEY," LESLIE SAYS breathlessly, emerging through the crowd of ravenous students flooding from the cafeteria line. She lays her book satchel on the wooden bench next to Les, plopping down with a dramatic humph.

"What, did you run a marathon?" Les jests, noticing her exhaustion. 

It's just the two of them. Connie and Julie are cross-legged on the far side of the bench, playing chopsticks, and Goldberg is scooping spoonfuls of their food onto his plate without their knowledge. Charlie is off somewhere, flirting with some girl named Linda or Lindsay, and everyone else is goodness-knows-where.

Leslie flexes her fingers as if she's about to complete a strenuous task, and takes a large bite into her sandwich. "Feels like it. It's BLT rush, I had to beat the crowd."

"BLTs are nothing compared to those shrimp cocktails, man," Les counters, sucking through the straw of his apple juice. "And this is nothing like Dom Perignon."

"Lester!" Leslie hisses. "You're not supposed to be drinking. How'd you even get away with it?"

Les frowns. "I resent the idea that I don't have a mature aura. I just asked for it."

"I have half a mind to tell your mother. But anyways, how was the function? I disappeared for a bit at the beginning. Snooty?" Leslie asks with a knowing grin.

Les chuckles. "Yeah, snooty, but it was kind of fun. Thanks for inviting me. But, um, I didn't happen to see my dad there. And I thought I would, so..." He trails off.

A chill pricks at the micro-hairs on Leslie's arms. She swallows her food and carefully wipes the corners of her mouth with her thumb. "He wasn't there?"

"Nope. Neither was my mom, come to think of it," Les says, tapping his fingernail against his metal tray. "Anyways, it doesn't matter."

Leslie sighs, grinding her teeth and returning to her food silently.

★ ━━━ "OH, AND YOU want to know the cherry on top with the whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles?" Leslie asks that evening, stabbing her fork into her Greek salad. The brittle plastic snaps in half at her force, and Adam shoots her an amused smile, handing her an extra fork from a tray on the side of the table.

"Yeah?" Adam urges from the red leather booth across from her. The crisp air of the approaching winter bites at Leslie and Adam's cheeks through the open window of Mickey's Diner. "What's the cherry on top with the whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles?"

"Nuh-uh, wrong," Leslie corrects, wagging her finger at Adam. "It's rainbow sprinkles; very important distinction. This is your reminder to never become a barista or waiter."

"I shall keep that in mind, Miss Leslie Averman-Oakes, my respected and admired career agent," Adam quips, rolling his eyes.

"But, in all seriousness, what happened was my dad neglected to invite my uncle to the function. His brother. That's his family," Leslie complains, firmly spearing a loose piece of lettuce. "I would never do that to my family." She considers it for a moment. "Except maybe my dad."