They Called Him Jireh

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Mark didn't think there was anything strange about the way Patricia tailed him instead of walking next to him. He too feared how it would look if they walked alongside each other, like friends...like a couple, even! He could imagine the dirty looks from all sides already, and he shuddered. No, it was for the best that she lagged behind.

But a moment later she caught up to him after all, apparently interested in saying something. He slowed his pace slightly, both to make it easier for her to keep up and so he could hear her more clearly. She'd only gotten a few sentences in before she dropped a string of words that caused his insides to tense and his face to sour. He looked stupid? He was aware of the structural differences between the average Caucasian face and the average African face, but hearing he looked outright "dumb" was new, and he didn't particularly like it. But when Patricia was the one dropping those words...he wasn't sure how else to describe the experience except as jarring and surreal. It was as if she alternated sentiments, first implying Mark was a lower being, then saying she wanted to be nice, then lower being, then nice, lower being, nice. Lower being, nice. He could only conclude by the end of it that Patricia honestly meant well, honestly was interested in him, and had merely been grossly misinformed. Could he find it in his heart to forgive that?

He sucked in a strained breath, held it for a second, and let it out with a sigh. Yes, he could. If it was Patricia, he could forgive her.

He came to a stop and turned halfway so he could look her in the eye. "Okay, first of all, the shake's for you," he said, unable to keep the edge out his voice completely. "I got it for you. It's a gift. All yours." He turned back and began to walk again. "And second...well, you tell me. If you shared a shake with a white guy, would you get cooties?"
 
When Mark turned to face her, Patricia physically cringed. She had, she had offended him! Even if she couldn't see it in the spark of his dark eyes, she knew it by the tone of his voice. It was just like when she'd made that quip about him sitting in the back seat of a theater and she knew she'd been out of line then. Only thing better about this time was that he didn't come out so hard on her. Shame tingled down her neck and prickled along her scalp. Trish only managed to meet his eye for a moment before quickly ducking her head to hide behind her bangs. How did he always manage to make her feel so awful about herself with just a turn of a phrase? And he didn't even have to be mean about it! That was the worst part.

"If you shared a shake with a white guy, would you get cooties?"

Golly, that sounded so dumb when he said it. Patricia very much felt like the fool now. Mortified, even. She couldn't answer and was so glad Mark kept walking; it took the pressure off of coming up with one. After a sip of milkshake to cool off, she, too, started walking again before he completely disappeared in the measly crowd. Cooties, indeed! What had possessed her to say such a childish word? Patricia let out a small groan and stared at her shake. Would a white guy give her anything? A cold, maybe, if he was sick. Would it really be no different sharing with a black guy? She had to admit, when reading Mark's letters she pretty much forgot about his skin colour. It was easy to pretend she was jotting down a note to any of her friends, only he was a guy. He wrote like anyone else. He had better penmanship than some. She didn't get caught up in cultural differences, intellectual differences, or whether or not he had cooties. Maybe that's what he liked so much about her letters.

Would she get cooties?

Trish hugged the strings of her bag tighter to her body and passed through the entrance into the garden exhibits. A glance around told her immediately which way Mark had taken and she caught up to him easily. Standing there the way he was, she took it all back. His eyes attested too much to the contrary for him to look dumb. They spoke a language she didn't know, but they definitely weren't the language of stupid. No, it was plain to see the spark of intelligence hidden in the depths of his dark gaze. What she'd learned about his kind, maybe it was all wrong. Probably all wrong. Suddenly self-conscious of herself again, Trish offered him a small smile and then the milkshake-- a token of equality and her faith in him. She didn't know how to say it any other way.

"Friends?" came her hopeful inquiry.
 
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Silence fell behind him. Mark wasn't sure if that was a good sign. He'd expected her to be confused and answer either yes or no, and then he'd planned on responding accordingly. But no, she didn't answer at all. Did that mean she was honestly pondering what he meant and realizing that it was silly, that she'd skipped a mental step or two ahead than what he'd expected of her? He felt guilty when he realized that was what he had imagined. He should've had more faith in her. He liked her, didn't he? She wasn't unintelligent that he could tell, just misinformed...

The silence grew more awkward with each step they took towards the garden exhibits, but he didn't know what to say. Eventually he found his pace slowing until he came to a stop in front of a bench somewhere in the middle of the maze of greenery, apparently between a trellis crawling with jasmine and a pink rock-rose bush. He couldn't go much farther than this without wandering clean off of the fairgrounds. He turned to see if Patricia had followed him all this way. She had. They locked gazes for several moments. He wasn't sure what he saw in her gray eyes...confusion? Apology? But whatever it was, they twinkled with honesty, with life. They were beautiful. They pierced his soul. And then she smiled softly, and with a deliberate gesture that defied his previous request, she held the shake out to him.

"Friends?"

His eyes flickered down to the shake, then back to her face. Then down again. Then, after a second, up again as a bemused smile lit up his face. "If you insist." He eased the shake from her grip with his free hand and took a sip. It was indeed tasty, and he emitted a short hum of approval around the small mouthful and then a muttered "Thank you" after he swallowed. He handed the shake back to her.

It was right about then that he realized that he was still standing and holding his sax case. That seemed silly, especially since there was a bench nearby. "Here, let's sit," he said, moving to set the heavy case on the ground next to the bench and then sit down fully. He sought her gaze again once he was comfortable. Now what? He had to make conversation somehow. "So, uh, you found any good albums recently?" was what he came up with after a moment's thought.
 
For a split second, Patricia wondered if she'd made a mistake in her choice of peace offering. Though he'd explicitly told her he didn't want or expect any of it, it'd been the first thing she thought of to make it clear she was willing to overlook what she'd been told about his kind and consider him an equal. After all, he really wasn't that much different, was he? From the things he said to how she responded to him, she was beginning to think that maybe they were both the same. Mark seemed to think so and wouldn't he be an authority on the subject because he was a black guy himself? Then again, he could just be prejudiced about his kind and really in no position to be making those kinds of claims. Then again, maybe it was her people who were the prejudiced ones and for all his talk about knowing, Pastor Rickles really didn't know black from white.

At any rate, that really wasn't helping her situation here and now. Maybe she'd only succeeded in adding injury to insult by taking the easy way out. Maybe he thought she was rejecting his gift but still wanting to be friends? Had he misunderstood her intentions? It was crazy how one minute she could have the perfect quip on the tip of her tongue, and the next she could find herself stumbling just to string coherent words together. And in this case, it was rather the lack of words that had her concerned.

Trish stood there uneasily, shifting the majority of her weight from one foot to the other while those haunting dark eyes took their time assessing her. Then, all of her pent up tension released in one collective sigh as he finally smiled at her and took the proffered shake. She couldn't help it, she found herself grinning right back. Good! They were on the same page after all! Everything was swiftly going back to the way it should be between them.

Then came a quandary.

Normally Patricia would have accepted the shake back with a graceful air and thought no more about it. A shake shared amongst friends, when had that ever caused a problem? But a little troublesome idea tugged itself from the back of her mind as her fingers accidentally bumped into his during the transition and culminated into a full-fledged memory when the shake was firmly in her possession again. She stared at the straw as a much younger Susan voice popped into her head.


"PJ! Vince kissed me! I had my first kiss!"

"What?! No way! When did it happen? Why did he do it? How did it feel? Come on, Sue! Tell me, tell me!"

An exuberant Sue turned into a sheepish one with all the questions Trish [PJ then] threw at her. Sue curled her water bottle towards her chest and clacked the lid against her bottom teeth for a good minute before finally answering: "Well... it wasn't really a kiss, but he drank out of my bottle by accident. ...It still counts, though!" she pouted indignantly as PJ covered her mouth with her hands and laughed. "His lips touched where mine did and mine touched where his did, so it still counts!"


Trish knew it was perfectly ridiculous to even consider the notion that this was in any way related to a kiss. However, between the heat glowing just under the surface of her cheeks and the thrill that raced up her arm to quicken her heartbeat from the brief contact with Mark's skin, she knew enough about her hormones to know there was definitely some kind of initial attraction going on in her. 'How very odd.' She was also acutely aware of how it might look if she wiped off the straw before using it again. She certainly couldn't use it like it was now that she was aware of the whole "sharing germs" factor, but then she also couldn't just wipe it off in front of Mark because that would defeat the whole purpose of sharing the shake in the first place.

Like she said before, quandary!

Once again, though, Mark saved the day by turning his attention towards making use of the bench behind them. Trish took that narrow window of opportunity to hastily clean the tip of the straw with the napkin she'd been using to hold the cold beverage with. There! Now Mark had sort of, kind of kissed her and she was free of returning the favour. By the time he was focused on her again, everything was back in order, including her beaming smile. Patricia easily followed his lead and situated herself on the bench with him: not too close to allow for any mistaken intimacy, but not too far away to make it look like she was intentionally distancing herself from him. She sat in the perfect distance of easy friendship with the practiced grace of a southern belle. Mark made the easy friendship part.... well.... easy. Especially when his eyes smiled like they were now. A girl could get lost in them...

Patricia blinked to break the spell and sipped on her newly cleaned straw. 'Albums, huh?'

"It's been a while since I went shopping for music, so no, I haven't found any good albums lately other than Sonny Rollins' latest one. A lot of my music collection is my mom's. I have a couple by Benny Goodman, and some Louie Armstrong, Jo Stafford, Phil Harris, Peggy Lee, Nat King Cole... Of course you can't forget Bing Crosby. It isn't Christmas without his voice crooning carols in the background. Oh! I found this one album by Kid Ory in a thrift store last summer. You know his music? I love playing it on lazy summer days when all I want to do is stare out my window and watch dragonflies drift by in the breeze. I like Willie Dixon and Jimmy Reed. Then there's Elvis, which is more what they call 'Rocking Roll,' but he still has that bluesy feel to his music, you know? I find for a rock singer, I really like his stuff. What about you? I mean, you have any favourites?"

She paused to take another sip. That should be enough to get the conversation rolling so things wouldn't get awkward.
 
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Goodness gracious, Patricia could be long-winded when she got excited. Not that Mark disliked that. There was something charming about the energy and passion that spilled from her lips like a babbling brook. He nodded as she spoke, visibly impressed by the number of artists she was familiar with. "Can't say I've heard him," he said in response to her inquiry about a certain Kid Ory, but fortunately he knew of the rest. His eyes smiled in approval. Patricia had good taste.

He perked up when it was his turn to relate his own preferences for music. "I really like the big jazz orchestras, myself. Count Basie, Duke Ellington. Ellington in particular has some damn fine tunes, and good names in his group too...ooh, if there's one player I like, it's Ben Webster." His smile grew, and his voice took on a tone of reverence. "Got my hands on his solo album a couple years ago. Never looked back. That guy's got a beautiful tone. Wish I could play like that." His gaze strayed sadly to his tenor case at his side. Yes, Mark too had dreams of fame, dreams of someday playing well enough to touch the souls of people all over the country. A lofty dream, he knew, but there was no harm in trying.

And then, unbidden, something flicked on in his brain. He felt a sudden urge to play again. To play Ben Webster. He might have realized this was the same sensation that had come over him a few weeks ago, when he had felt an overwhelming compulsion to perform Sonny Rollins' "Oleo" for Patricia, but he was already reaching for his case before he could fully process that connection. "Hey, d'you know that old folk song, 'Danny Boy'?" he asked as he hefted up the sax case by the handle, eased it into his lap, and began to unlatch it.
 
Mark had some decent taste in music himself and it was nice to know that someone else out there appreciated the "big band" genre of jazz/swing. Count Basie was one name she knew and appreciated. While she didn't own any of their albums, any time she heard their music playing she loved to sit and listen. They'd had a scene in one of Ann Miller's movies that she'd gone to see a couple years ago... Reveille with Beverly, wasn't it? Ann Miller was one of her inspirations, just like Ben Webster apparently was to Mark. Huh, he actually took the time to know the individual members of orchestras. Well, it made sense she supposed. He was, after all, a musician. Trish really only paid attention to the bandleaders.

Her brow knitted together as she tried to remember what the Count Basie orchestra had played in the film. It'd been a hopping number. "One o'clock Jump!" Of course. Trish really needed to look into expanding her music collection. After Homecoming, though. And Senior Prom. Saving up her allowance for knock-out, gorgeous dresses was a teensy, weensy bit more important this year.

"Hey, d'you know that old folk song, 'Danny Boy'?"

Patricia blinked and looked up from her milkshake to see Mark's nimble fingers playing with the latches on his case. A small tingle of thrill raced down her spine and she couldn't keep the grin from spreading across her face. Was he seriously going to serenade her amongst the flowers? How... romantic! She glanced up at him shyly, catching her bottom lip between her teeth to hide just how much she was smiling. It was always bad luck to let a guy know just how easy a girl could be pleased. How many stuck around if they didn't have to work for a kiss? Or in this case, a beaming smile. It surprised her that it was so easy to admit to herself how much she wanted Mark to stick around. He was nice. Really, really nice.

"Yeah, I- I know it. The concert band plays it at the end of their last concert every year as a good-bye to the seniors. It's a beautiful piece."
 
"Concert band, huh?" Mark glanced up at Patricia's face as he got the case open. She seemed...tense? Happy, excited? A spurt of some sort of pleasure-chemical he could probably have named if he'd gotten into chemistry instead of mathematics flooded his system. She was eager to hear him. He turned his face back to his lap, mostly because he had to assemble his instrument, but it came with the strange sense that he was hiding how much his face had just started beaming. "Well, this'll sound pretty different from a concert band," he said as he slipped his neckstrap over his head, "but maybe you'll like it."

He stuck his usual reed in his mouth to moisten it as he hooked the body of the instrument onto his neckstrap, slid the neckpiece into its slot, tightened it into place, and then worked the mouthpiece down over the neckpiece's cork. He then slipped the softened reed into its place on the mouthpiece, adjusted it with the care and practiced hand of an artist, and finally tightened the ligature to hold it there. At last. He let the completed instrument settle at his side, adjusting the neckstrap until it was positioned just right for him. He tested the mouthpiece with a few breaths, fiddled his fingers along the keys to loosen up...and began to play.

He couldn't quite get the breathy subtone of which Ben Webster was master, but he tried, and he came close with a smooth, mellow timbre of his own. Neither were his embellishments exact matches of the record track Mark so loved, but rather inspired by them. Mark knew the original melody, and he let his own personal, emotional understanding of the song flow through his mouth and his fingers. This was Mark Cordial playing, clearly inspired by Ben Webster to those who might recognize the song or style, but his own playing all the same. He was Mark Cordial, and he was an entertainer. All his mind knew was his music, his hopefully beautiful music. When the song came to an end, he looked slowly back to Patricia, feeling as if he were coming out of a fog or trance. He wasn't sure what to say now, at least not without sounding cocky or as if he were fishing for compliments. He decided to let Patricia speak first, even though each second that ticked by as he waited for her to respond would undoubtedly make the atmosphere more awkward. Ah, why had he just done that? Did he think he could impress the pretty girl? How foolish of him...
 
Trish's pulse quickened while Mark put together his instrument and warmed up. Her grey eyes darted to and fro, not able to settle on any one thing now that their dark anchor had turned to focus on their current task. It occurred to her just how open their little walkway between the exhibits really was. Though hidden amongst the flowers, the garden exhibit was still a fairly public place for them to be socializing. People could walk by. People she knew. Thankfully, Sunday afternoon was one of the slowest times at the fairgrounds and they'd pretty much had the gardens to themselves to begin with. Maybe an elderly couple would walk by, hand-in-hand, and stop by the side path to smile at the pretty music, but who would bother slipping by Mr. Porter's outrageously bushy shrubs to see who was behind the melodious sound?

Then Mark broke into his smooth, jazzy rendition of "Danny Boy." As if a switch flipped inside her, all of her fears drifted away with the notes; they rose up from her thoughts to hook onto an eighth note or catch a ride on the belly of a quarter note and drift away. Patricia set her shake down between them and lightly curled her fingers around the edge of the bench. Closing her eyes, she tilted her head back and concentrated on listening. The bold rays of the late afternoon sun warmed her face, eliciting a softly sighed, "Hmmmm..." Could heaven be so perfect?

Gradually, her earlier reservations dissipated completely. Even if someone happened upon them, she doubted she had the willpower to force an eye open to care. By the end of the second verse her sigh turned into a low, hesitant hum. Though she couldn't guess exactly where Mark would put his inflections or drag out a stanza, she could complement his improvisation. It was jazz, right? As long as it was in the same key and not overpowering the solo instrument, anything went. Whatever the musician was feeling. Maybe that was what drew her to this kind of music. It had no restraints, nothing rigid or demanding. It truly was the heart and soul of the artist. Trish quickly found Mark's inner rhythm and drew a little more courage to attempt to sing along on the last verse.

Of course, she couldn't remember all the words to "Danny Boy" --she'd never had any occasion to sing the whole song. Patricia did know the first two verses, however, and so dove into the first line in a sultry, low soprano. Definitely more on the Ava Gardner side of things than Ann Miller, but that was okay because she didn't have the dance moves like Ann Miller either. She would have if she hadn't been such a stubborn child... but that was a story for another time.

"Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling... From glen to glen and down the mountain side..." When the tenor sax called, she responded, sometimes slipping in a whole phrase before his fingers worked a run and sometimes waiting for him to finish a line before singing her own. "The summer's gone and all the roses falling... Tis you, tis you must go and I must bide."

It really was such a poetic piece to pick. Here they were surrounded by flowers, summer was almost at an end, and they were on the cusp of two worlds merging into one. Right here, this moment, it was beautiful. Evocative. The last notes of the tenor sax floated away in the breeze.

"Tis you, tis you must go and I must bide," Patricia repeated the last line and her voice dropped into a sigh of contentment. Slowly, she opened her eyes again, moving her head just enough to glance at Mark in her peripherals. A sly grin propped up one corner of her mouth and she lightly swung her legs back and forth under the bench.

"You like showing off, don't you?"

Trish punctuated her tease with a bright, pink bubble that popped almost instantly.
 
Mark hadn't expected his companion to sing along. She had a nice voice that definitely put him at ease. This was their song now, not just his, and when their song came to an end, the pleased look on Patricia's face was unmistakable. Pride and relief bubbled up inside him. He removed his hands from his instrument and placed them on the bench on either side of him, where they comfortably took some of his weight. All was well.

"You like showing off, don't you?"

...And just like that, Mark's comfort bubble popped in time with the pink one on Patricia's lips. Self-conscious heat rushed to his face. "Um...yes?" he stammered. "Maybe?" His fingers tightened against the bench, but it wasn't enough to stop the sudden urge to spill forth this thoughts in a desperate explanation, which he promptly began to do. "I-I mean, I like makin' people happy. And I like to think my music does that, y'know? That it's good enough to make people happy. N-not the best music in the world, o'course, I'm no Charlie Parker, but...just good enough that it's more pleasant than not when I play, yeah? Does that make any sense? You're a performer, do you get that feeling at all?" He turned away and rubbed his temples with the thumb and middle finger of his far hand. "I dunno, maybe I'm just some kinda...narcissist, or whatever..."

Mark knew his own personality well. Too well. In person, he was the shy, polite, and apologetic one of the family, the polar opposite of Ben in many ways. He was downright bashful. But put him behind his instrument, and he blossomed into an entertainer, free to put himself on display where he was safely behind the lens that separates a performer from his audience.
 
If Mark thought Trish long-winded when talking about music, Patricia thought him doubly so when trying to modestly brag. The longer he stumbled over his words, the more the upward creases around her mouth deepened. It was fairly safe to assume she'd gone and flustered him with the way he carried on. Mark was cute when he was flustered. Not in a good-looking, hot guy kind of cute, of course, but in a cheeky little puppy dog kind of way. Or not quite that either. Somewhere between the two. Trish chomped down on her gum and slowly worked the pink, sticky mess into her mouth again. She couldn't help the giggles that trickled out as he finished his ramblings.

"Sure, you're narcissistic," Trish nodded, grey eyes wide and innocent with no pretense of making fun. She blew out and popped another bubble. Something he'd said did strike a chord with her, though. While she didn't necessarily act on stage because she wanted to please anybody in particular, the girl did have to admit that she liked pleasing her audience when she did get on stage. What actor didn't? The other option was always rotten tomatoes and that was never any fun. Unless you were the one in the crowd throwing the rotten tomatoes, but she'd never stoop that low. It was downright unchivalrous! Poor team spirit. All that jazz.

"But yeah, I can see where you're coming from. You got talent and you use it. Your playing makes me happy, or at least it makes my feet happy. My toes get tapping and I feel like dancing. And dancing... well... aren't people usually happy when they dance?"

He'd asked if she ever felt the same way he did. She'd rather know the other side of the curtain. If he felt the same way she did when he watched her. It couldn't be because she cared at all what he thought of her. Nope, not that at all.

"So tell me, Mr. Performer, is my acting enough to make people happy?"
 
Mark frowned at her quip. She wasn't supposed to say that. But Patricia continued to speak after a moment, now of how Mark's music apparently gave her happy dancing feet. That shy but pleased smile returned to his face at the notion that he had played well enough to put Trish in a good mood. That was the best kind of compliment.

She steered the conversation to herself next, asking what he thought of her performances in return. "Oh! Yeah, for sure!" he said, maybe too emphatically, but that realization was only in the back of his mind, and it wasn't strong enough to interrupt his speech. "I really like watching you. You have this..." he trailed off briefly, gesturing idly with one hand as he sought the proper word, "...energy, like, you really get into the character, y'know? You make it look easy. The audience can tell you're into it, and it makes the audience get more into it. I mean, that's how I feel when I'm in the audience. Can't speak for everyone else." He realized he'd been using his hands to talk, which was a bit strange to do when they had to maneuver around the saxophone that was still hanging from his neck, so he turned his attention to his neckstrap. "Sorry, I'll get this out of the way." He unhooked the instrument from its strap, but only after he did so did he process the implications of not having retrieved his case first, so he cradled the bell of the instrument in his arm as he reached awkwardly to the side and eventually managed to lift the case with one hand and slide it across his lap. Not the most graceful movement he'd ever made in his life, but he tried not to dwell on it. He set about disassembling the instrument, though he kept his ears open for Patricia's response.
 
"Magnetism? Style? Completely egotistical and highly inflated view of myself?" Patricia threw out in the short pause it took Mark to settle on 'energy.' She nodded along with the rest of his answer, appeased and satisfied that he felt the same way about her acting that she felt about Ann Miller. Ah, it all boiled down to comparing herself to Miss Miller, didn't it? She could say she was thoroughly obsessed with the actress and knew, logically, she could never hope to attain the same level of stardom as the singing, dancing marvel, but that still didn't keep her from dreaming about that kind of fame.

The more time she spent in Mark's company, the more she found herself liking it. It was nice having a person to chat with where she didn't have to constantly think about her words and actions. Well, she had felt like that at first, but after looking past the whole skin issue, there was a bit of freedom in hanging out with the black boy. If she thoroughly insulted him and he never talked to her again, who cared? It wasn't like she'd bump into him any time soon at school or have to worry about incurring his wrath and damaging her image in her social circle. She could be completely herself, no airs, and if he didn't like it, he didn't have to stay. And if he left, who cared?

Trish picked up her shake again. "I'll tell you a little secret," she said mysteriously between sips. "I love playing the villain. I get to do and say horrendous, unspeakable things that I wouldn't dare do off stage because I'd get in immediate trouble. I mean, I can't get away with anything. It's pathetic." She smiled wryly. "I guess if I don't have that outlet, all of that pent up craziness unleashes itself in the form of eating intestines... WHICH by the way, Ted was totally doing it, too, and the teacher said NOTHING to him."

Eh, that sounded a bit immature. But whatever. She could say anything to Mark and not care about the consequences, right? Right. She sighed and rolled her neck in a mild stretch. "I'm glad I just come across as enthusiastic and not a high strung maniac," Trish added in a light-hearted tone.
 
Mention of a "little secret" piqued Mark's interest. He made efforts to move slowly and close his sax case quietly so that he wouldn't miss any of Trish's story. She lay herself bare to him with words like that, something he did not take for granted, and she did so in a funny way to boot. He couldn't not chuckle when she called it "pathetic" that she couldn't get away with any real villainy. Oh, but she wasn't done. Her accusation of this comrade-in-arms called Ted...he wasn't sure exactly what it was about her comedic timing, but before he could help it, he burst into a laugh, a solid, honest, belly-shaking laugh. How long had it been since he'd had a good laugh like that? There wasn't normally much to laugh about in his life. Timmy regularly earned a few chuckles, but that was nothing like this. Trish was a friend. Trish brought Mark joy.

The laugh eased down as she continued. "Naw, naw, you're cool," he reassured her. "I like you. And hey, I wouldn't mind a maniac. It's entertaining." He took a second to ease the case off his lap and set it on the ground next to him before he sat up again and continued. "Almost wish I could say we could be maniacs together, or something, but I'm far too boring and mild-mannered. You'll have to make up for me, okay? You'll have to be a double-maniac. Don't let me down, Trish!" He pointed at her as if admonishing her, but the smile playing at the corner of his mouth told that he wasn't serious.

Or at least, he was joking around for those first few seconds, before he realized he'd just addressed her out loud for the first time. And for some reason, he hadn't said Patricia. He'd said Trish. He didn't have time to try and figure out when, why, and how his brain had decided on that version of her name, because he was already stammering to cover up the slip. "I, um...sorry, I can call you Trish, right?" he said. "That was one of the options? It's cute." Ah, no! Some sub-process of his mind had been trying to figure out why he'd picked Trish, and now he'd gone and blurted the results without thinking! He could feel more color than usual rushing to his face, and his hands found each other in front of him and began playing nervously with each other.
 
An eyebrow popped up as Trish gave Mark a sidelong look. His comments brought her pleasure, but at the same time they hit her funny, too. Not funny as in "Ha ha, you're hilarious" but funny as in "Okay, bucko, BACK OFF." Was Mark... was he... My goodness, was Mark flirting with her?!? Patricia's hand sneaked the short distance across the bench to rescue her milkshake from cootie contamination and cradle it safely in her lap. Her eyes narrowed at his last remark. Cute, eh? Definitely flirting, or just being too darn nice. Creeps had a way of being too darn nice-- too darn nice they make your skin crawl. But while Mark was just a little too enthusiastic in his praises, it wasn't the kind that brought goose-pimples to the back of her neck and a cold sweat to her underarms. It was like he was kind of, well, desperate in a way. Desperate to please her. Which was NOT the same as flirting. Although they could look alike and very easily deceive a person, Trish had to admit.

She lifted the straw to her mouth for a sip, eyes still hooded as they regarded the now nervous boy beside her. Milkshakes, gardens, serenading, way too many compliments, just what was Mark Cordial's game here? Patricia sucked on the straw until it gurgled in protest and swallowed the chocolatey goodness. He sure didn't look like a creep. And he was really nice. Heck, he even laughed at her antics. It made her feel good.

Patricia set her shake back down on the bench with a sigh and looked Mark full in the face. Well, as full as she could with him twiddling his thumbs and looking all nervous-like. "You know Mark," she began, "you don't have to try so hard. I'm interested, okay? In being friends. Talking music. All that jazz." Her bluntness vanished then and she dropped her gaze to her lap before saying more quietly, "And to answer your question... yes. Trish is fine."
 
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