Free Compliments by Mari K. Cicero

jerks in the direction of the sole building in view.
    “I’ll have you know this is Lagoona Lake’s best fish fry,” he declares. “I know, going for seafood on a first date is probably a bad idea, but I figured you’d be convinced I wasn’t after a quick score if both of us came away with halibut breath.”
    I don’t know whether to squirm or to laugh, but when his lips begin to curl, I can’t help giggling.
    “Don’t worry, they have plenty of other stuff, in case you were planning to tempt my chastity,” he assures me as he secures both of our helmets to the bike. “Everyone from the university always heads downtown to go out. This place is a hidden gem, a locals’ favorite. Trust me,” he holds out his hand, “you’re going to love it.”
    Inside, I feel like I’ve stepped into the backwoods of my youth, when my father would take me on drives to the sleepy coastal towns of Southern California. Well-worn chairs surround tables upon which red checkerboard cloths are spread. On top of each is the basic fish fry supply kit of salt, pepper, ketchup, and malt vinegar. Hawk leads us to a table next to a window, through which we can see the last liquid drops of sunset drip below the horizon. He hesitantly glances at me when the waitress asks us if we want drinks, but then eases when I order a beer. He asks for whatever lager they have on tap.
    “You didn’t think I drank?” I ask him when the waitress leaves us after having looked at our IDs.
    “I’m third generation British. All hail the ale!” he proclaims as two frosty steins appear on our table.
    Gazing at the size of the mug before us with concern, I get nervous. My eyes wander to the exit, and of course it’s as if he’s reading my mind.
    “Don’t worry, I’m not going to drink it all,” he says. “And we’ll take a walk along the shore after dinner to make sure we’re both fresh and sober.”
    I pull a hefty slug from my own pint. “You’re the driver, Hawk. I just need to be sure I can hold on tight enough.”
    “Judging by how you were trying to force my spleen up through my chest cavity back on the highway, I doubt that’s going to be a problem.”
    “Was not!” I exclaim, though I’m certain the flush of my cheeks shows my guilt, as well as a bit of pride. Sometimes I hate how my skin is just light enough for this telltale sign to be so prevalent, but Hawk grins when he sees it. I decide to take the focus off myself, hoping to distract him. “So, Mr. Stephen, Hawk N., tell me about yourself. It seems unfair that you know what kind of yogurt I eat and I don’t even know what baseball team you cheer for.”
    “Is that the male-female equation and conversion? Seems fair. I’m a Cubs fan.”
    My eyebrow raises. “Oh, you’re from Chicago?”
    “More or less if you round up to the nearest metropolitan hub. I grew up in the Urbana-Champaign area. My parents met when they were both at Northwestern and decided that’s where they wanted to live the rest of their lives. My dad teaches physics at a community college, my mom’s a CPA. I got my love of numbers from her, my love of teaching from him, and my dislike for the Buckeyes from both.”
    “Here, here,” I say as I raise my glass.
    “No, really? What reason do you have for being anti-Ohio State? Not that I’m complaining, mind you, just curious. I didn’t think the Huntington Beach crowd swung that way.”
    “True,” I say, “most don’t, but both of my parents are originally from Detroit. They moved out to California after college, where they had me. They ingrained Buckeye-disdain into me from a young age.”
    He raises his glass in salute. “To your parents, then, and their wisdom to pass along to you our great Midwestern traditions.”
    “They also taught me to measure distance in minutes, too. I refuse to go with that silly, practical ‘how many miles is it according to Google Maps’ method.”
    “The whole concept of English measurement is a farce anyway,”