Her index figured traces the rim of a Pumpkin Spice latte. He sits at her side.
“They always spell my name wrong. It’s not ‘Douglass’”.
“Same. I usually just spell it out for them, otherwise they’ll get it wrong. P-O-R-T-I-A.”
He compares the denim on his chambray T-shirt to the indigo threads of her cuffed jean shorts.
“He rolls his sleeve up one too many times.”
Her delicate hands unravel the denim sleeve once and survey it. Still not satisfied, she undoes the cuff entirely so the hems meet his wrist.
“See, it looks so much better like that.”
Meet Douglas Brownlee and Portia Renee.
His hunter green eyes are a shade darker than her sea foam set. Her chin barely scrapes his shoulder.
He’s a Catholic-schoolboy who only knew one out of the approximate 2,000 bodies at East last year. She’s a French Academy girl who knew none at all.
They are an (almost) nine month couple who made it official on an even-numbered date, December 28, because of Portia’s opposition to odds.
They’re two sophomores who go from school to the closest Starbucks for coffee every Wednesday, to Hen House next door so Portia can order mashed potatoes.
They sit in the corner booth of the food court, Portia with her back to the wall, knees pressed against her chest, so she can face his profile.
Douglas sits with his upper-arm resting on the top of the forest-green booth, his palm gently gripping her knee, her feet dug beneath his leg.
“Sorry,” Portia playfully apologizes with a grin; she has no intention of moving.
As the minutes roll by, the space between the two diminishes, until fingers intertwine and Douglas’s shoulder becomes a headrest for Portia’s short, dark hair.
And, when Douglas’s mom is waiting for him outside two hours later, he high-fives Portia goodbye. He isn’t a fan of PDA.