A Taste of Spring

DEZMOND
Dez handed the waitress his menu then watched her walk away. He relaxed in his chair as he turned his attention to Spring. She
surprised him when she agreed to go to lunch with him even though he showed up unannounced at her job. But the kiss she
greeted him with surprised him more.
"So," he fingered the condensation on his glass, "you like kissing."
Spring's head whipped up so fast he was certain she would feel an ache later. Her eyes fluttered and she looked away. It was
such an innocent response to such a bold act. (A delightful mystery, Spring is.)
"I'm sorry about that. It seems I keep..."
"Keep what?"
Spring looked down at something, maybe her napkin, but Dez waited for her response. He sat forward.
Spring covered her face with her hand then sighed. "Honestly, I have no real excuse. I am sorry."
Dez waved his hand dismissively. "Don't be. I enjoy kissing you. I hope to do it often...but that depends, I suppose."
"On?" she asked.
Dez relaxed back in his seat. He could see the concern in her eyes so he didn't make her wait for his response. But he wanted
to. "On if you want to continue the 'No personal info' clause. I like you, Spring. I want to see more of you, get to know you. Will
you allow me to know you?"
He watched as she seemed to go over what he said in her head. She looked away a few times but when it seemed as if she
came to some kind of resolution, Spring looked at him. He waited about as long as the suspense lover in him wanted to make
her wait earlier, but clearly, he wasn't holding the cards in this relationship. He rarely held the cards.
Spring extended her hands to him, avoiding their glasses on the table. "My name is Spring Annalisa Lafayette of the New
Orleans Lafayette's."
She smiled.

A low chuckle came from Dez as he took hold of Spring's hand. "Dezmond Rey, of the DC Rey's." He squeezed her hand just a
little before releasing it. "So, is your family one of the old prestigious ones in The Quarter?
"Old maybe...prestigious?" she chuckled, "...maybe in spirit."
"I would have never guessed you were from the south. I haven't heard even a hint of an accent. Do you know French?"
"No, you won't find the stereotypical southern drawl there. They have a unique way of speaking," she informed him. Spring used
her finger to hook some stray hair behind her ear but kept hold of the hair and started twisting it in her fingers. "Most folks don't
speak French regularly. I don't speak it."
Dez didn't fail to notice the uncomfortable look on her face. He didn't like it but was curious enough to continue on the topic of
her origin. "Did you like growing up there, in New Orleans? I bet it was beautiful."
Spring looked away from him and gazed around the restaurant. When she found his eyes again, she said, "I can tell you that
even as a young girl, I felt as if everywhere I went had some kind of story to tell. I was intrigued by it all but...I grew up fast and
one day, it was just another city to me." She shrugged. "Where did you grow up?"
The waitress and a server chose that moment to appear with their lunch. They placed a sizzling plate of chicken, cheese, and
veggies in front of Spring, and his club sandwich with fries in front of him. He waited for the restaurant staff to leave before he
started to recite his origins to her.
"I grew up in upstate New York. My father's family hails from Puerto Rico." He traced his drink coaster with his finger. "My father
joined the US military, and during a layover found my mother during a town's Wheat Fair in Kansas of all places. She says that
she was immediately attracted to him. My father has suggested that she was more into the uniform but he won her over in the
end. They found their American dream through investing. My mom and dad are more by the book but my extended family are
rebels, so my childhood could be described as well-rounded."
Dezmond unwrapped his silverware and placed the cloth napkin in his lap. He took one of the paper napkins from the dispenser
and lifted the two half slices of pickles off his plate and rolled them in the napkin. He placed the rolled pickles off to the side of his
plate. When he looked up, Spring was regarding him with what he can only describe as a clinical curiosity. Like he was an
experiment in a lab.
(Was it the pickles or the story?)
"What about your parents?" Dez asked, looking at his food. "How was your childhood?"