“It’ll be hot, don’t you think?”
When she goes to run toward the church, adolescently gleeful at the idea of making out up against its wooden doors, she slips and falls face first in a patch of mud. Her fall coat is covered in it. His face registered no prospect of romance, and now, no notice of its sudden and abrupt loss. He helps her up and smiles quietly as she giggles. They are relative strangers. The idea of sacrilege abandoned, they continue with their night.
“The Cadbury factory is near here. Have you ever seen it?”
He shakes his head no.
“I walked by it once and they were changing shifts in the middle of the night. There was this line of little old ladies going into the factory. In a perfect line. No men, just tiny old women.”
“Sort of ruins Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.”
“Because they weren’t orange?”
She takes him by the factory. She glances sideways at him as they pass it. She thinks about taking his hand. It smells like warm chocolate.
They are sleeping at his parents’ house. They fumble around quietly, but don’t have sex. She wonders if he’s wondering what the point was, but he doesn’t seem disappointed.
The next morning, she borrows one of his shirts to go to work in.
“I hate my job,” she says. “Let’s run away.”
“I’m pretty happy where I am,” he says, lying back in bed.
Halfway to work, she gets off the subway and gets back on going in the opposite direction. She goes home to bed. She spends the day worrying that she’s going to lose her job.