This is a horrible idea. This is a horrendous idea. This is an absolutely absurd, preposterous idea! You think to yourself as you pull on the sling that cradled your arm. Your whole arm hurt, a dull throbbing coming from the sight where you were shot by your soon to be date.

It had always been quite a production yourself getting ready for a date in the past, and that was with two functional arms. Allowing yourself a little more time than usual and a generous glass of white wine, you gingerly wiggled yourself into something presentable, a snow leopard print blouse with a pair of dark blue jeans. As you zip up the side of your boots, tying shoelaces impossible at the moment, your cellphone chimes.

Be there in 5.

"Oh boy," you say aloud to yourself nervously.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, you pull a brush through your hair with your free hand, letting your hair hang down long and natural for the night, going light on the makeup as well. Anything more than that just wasn't in the cards in your current state. You give yourself a once-over in the mirror. You grab your glass of wine and finish it off.

I'm going on a date. With a guy who shot me. Because I was hiding in his bushes. I'm officially a bad Lifetime movie.

The thought makes you chuckle and shake your head, but the slightest movements to your shoulder and arm cause you to wince in pain. Even with being as careful as possible, the wound was fresh. The hustle and bustle of getting ready had caused the pain to go from a dull ache to a loud throbbing roar, despite the wine you used to try and numb your pain as well as your nerves.

Reaching into the medicine cabinet, you grab the small bottle of pills that you picked up from the pharmacy that afternoon; A prescription for painkillers the ER doc had given you the night before with your paperwork. You give the directions a quick look:

'One every 4 fours hours as needed for pain.'

I can do that.

DO NOT DRIVE OR OPERATE HEAVY MACHINERY.'

He's driving, no problem there.

MAY CAUSE DROWSINESS.

Don't see that happening, WAY too nervous.

DO NOT DRINK WHILE TAKING THIS MEDICATION, MAY INTENSIFY THE EFFECTS OF ALCOHOL.

You purse your lips and stare moodily at the empty wine glass on your nightstand.

Well shit.

You shift your shoulder slightly to test it. A bolt of pain shoots down your slinged arm, and you swear you can feel your heartbeat in your wound. It makes you hiss and curse under your breath.

Fuck it, I'll be fine. It's not like I'm a lightweight.

You shake one out of the bottle and pop it in your mouth and choke it down with a gulp of water from your bathroom faucet. You wipe your chin with the back of your good hand as the buzzer to your apartment shrieks.

Oh lord, he's here.

You grab your purse, haphazardly throw the pill bottle in the bottom and head out the door to meet him in the lobby, not wanting him to get a glimpse of your disaster zone of an apartment.

As you come down the last flight of stairs, you see the man you had been ogling from your friend's balcony for the previous few weeks. Sam is studying the assortment of last names on the mailboxes, his hands shoved in his back pockets. He turns towards the staircase as he hears the sound of boots coming down the stairs. The sight of you makes an approving grin form on the corner of his lips.

Making your way towards him, you stop short.

"Hold it," You tell Sam, his smile turning into a confused frown.

"Did you leave your gun at home?" You ask him.

He lets out a small relieved chuckle.

"No guns, I promise," Sam assures you as you walk towards him.

"You're sure you're not armed?" You question him again.

Sam holds open his leather jacket, giving you a peek of the hunter green shirt and dark tan pants that he wore underneath.

"You wanna frisk me and check?" He asks, a hint of suggestiveness in his voice.

"I think you would enjoy that too much," You tell him.

"See? Look at that, you know me so well already," Sam flirts, the friendly banter draining the nerves from both of you as he escorts you out the door.

The restaurant Sam picked was nice, very nice. Waiting list nice. Sam orders a bottle of white wine and pours you a glass. Taking it in your hand, you pause for a moment, your brain flashing back to the pain pill that you had taken earlier. You didn't know a ton about pain medication. Still, you remembered the small, yellow sticker on the bottle warning you to not mix them with alcohol that you had already ignored once tonight.

"You alright?" Sam asks, seeing your hesitation.

You glance past the glass of crisp, white wine and fix on the eyes across the table from you. Sam's bright, inviting hazel eyes.

Screw it. What's the worst that can happen?

You take a sip and set your glass back down.

"Better now," You tell him.

"How's the arm?" Sam asks, setting his glass back down on the table.

"A little sore. It's also got a hole it, thanks to you," You inform him in a sickly sweet, sarcastic voice.

"Hey, you can't say I didn't warn you," He says, raising his hands in defensive.

"I still can't believe you shot me. With a gun!" You try and keep your voice low. The sling on your arm was already giving you more attention than you were comfortable with. Evidently, broken people didn't go to fancy dinners.

"When I said I was gonna shoot, what did you think I'd use, a blow dart?" Sam quirks an eyebrow at you.

"It'd be original. But not very practical," You nod in begrudging, logical acceptance.

At that moment, and possibly for the first time in your life, you felt your toes rubbing against the socks in your boots. A comforting sensation that stuck out to you and made you wiggle your toes back and forth against the cozy material.

Hmm, this is new. My feet have never felt so comfy in my socks before.

You take your wine glass in hand again and crinkle your nose. For some reason, it feels awfully light.

I didn't take that big of a sip, did I? You wonder, holding it in front of your face.

Fingers interlaced, Sam rests his chin on his hands while he watches you bounce the glass of wine in your hand.

"Problem?" He asks.

Your eyes snap passed the glass.

"Nope," You say, setting it down gently next to you, "Nope, all good," You give him a reassuring smile, despite the fact every muscle in your body had now relaxed to a point it hadn't in ages.

Dear Lord, I think I might be stoned, being your last thought as the waiter approaches the table, setting down a very large dinner plate with a small pink lump in the center, surrounded by multi-colored dots and swirls. You nervously thank the waiter and lean in towards Sam.

"Um, did we order, and I just forgot?" You ask him in a hushed voice.

Sam chuckles a little.

"Nah, this is just one of those places where the chef decides what you want, and they just bring it to you."

"Swanky."

"My brother told me about it, said it'd be a good place to take a date."

"You know, I think I had sheets that looked like this when I was a kid," You tell him, waving your fork over the sauces covering the plate, making him smile.

"I think I did too," He nods in agreement.

You poke at the pink mound at the center of the plate.

"It's a little pink lump," You report to Sam.

"I think it's supposed to be crab or lobster," He says, poking at his own. His eyes suddenly go wide. "Oh shit, you're not allergic, are you?" He says as he watches you fork it into your mouth. You stop suddenly and stare at Sam in horror. You couldn't watch Sam squirm for more than a few moments before laughing mischievously.

"Nope, all good," You assure him, a visible wave of relief washing over him as he tilts his head back with a sigh.

"I'm sorry, I just- I had to. You set it right up there," You tell him, waving your arms in defense, your fork still in your hand,

"But it is a tasty pink lump, so I would definitely eat it." Gesturing at his plate.

Sam ran a hand over his face and through his dark hair.

"Jesus, you had me there for a second," He breathed, finally taking up his fork. "I would have felt like a real asshole if I put you in the Emergency Room two nights in a row."

"Yeah, that would suck," Your voice louder than you think, making Sam grin, not to mention causing eyes from tables close to you to dart your way as you top off your glass and Sams.

"So, what made you move next door to Jenn?" You ask, setting the bottle back down carefully on the tabletop.

"I got tired of doing what I was doing. I wanted something different," He admitted, wiping his mouth, "I figured a fixer-upper house like that would keep me busy for a while."

"That house? Oh yeah. When the old people left, it was like a straight-up ghetto move. Jenn and I looked inside when they were gone, and it looked like something out of an episode of Hoarders."

As you finish your sentence, your waiter appears and removes your plates, replacing them with new ones. The large oval in front of you now contained three small green lumps topped with delicate weeds surrounded by a swath of colored foams.

You scrunched your face as you stared at your plate, absently scratching at your immobilized arm. Sam eyed his own matching plate suspiciously.

"So, what do you think, animal, vegetable, or mineral?" He posed the question to you.

"Be dipped in shit if I know," You mutter to yourself.

"What?" Sam asked incredulously, not sure if he actually heard you right.

"Hang on, you don't know? Haven't you ever been here before?" You ask, gesturing around the room with a finger.

"No, it was just somewhere Nathan told me about," Sam put down his fork in resignation. "To be honest with you, this isn't really my kinda thing," He admitted, leaning in closer to you.

"Oh, thank god! Cause I don't know how much longer I could do this. I'm high as a kite, and that foam looks like someone spit on my plate," The words tumbled out of your mouth quickly and honestly, making Sam laugh comfortably for the first time that night. For him, it felt like the pieces were starting to be put together.

You caught sight of one of the waiter's passing by and called them over to your table.

"Excuse me, can you tell me how many courses there are this evening?"

"This evening, the Chef is featuring a total of 9 courses with three sorbet intermissions for palate cleansing," The suit-clad lad in the apron said confidently and obviously well-rehearsed.

"Ah lovely, now, can you tell me, are any of those courses chicken wings or barbeque ribs?"

The waiter stared at you as if another head had sprouted from your armpit. His mouth gaped open, his brain obviously not ready for such a question. Sam smiled and felt for his wallet in his back pocket.

"Uh no, we don't have those," He said slowly, each word spoken as if he wasn't sure if it was correct.

"Ah thought so, thank you very much," You said politely before turning your attention back to your date.

"Can we get out of here?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

"So tell me again why you shot me instead of Jenn?"

You sat cross-legged on spongy grass of the park near your apartment, the wind full of smells from the line of food trucks along its edge, and the sound of music and conversation from the people that filled the park that warm evening. Sam sat comfortably next to you, his back resting against the large silver maple like you, a charred spare rib clamped between his fingers. A sample of the small feast that sat between the two of you of ribs, wings, cornbread, and Cokes.

"No, seriously! She was the one that was making the noise!" You argue, dredging a saucy chicken wing through a puddle of blue cheese.

"Wouldn't that make her the better target?" The emphasis of the statement making a dollop of blue cheese fall from the wing onto your arm.

"You got stuff on you," Sam said, his words muffled by the pork in his mouth.

You glanced down at the dressing on your forearm before looking back at Sam. Holding his stare, you bring your arm slowly to your mouth, and, doing what could only be called your best impression of a turtle at dinner time, ate the blue cheese off your arm with deliberate slowness. Your arm made it back down to your side before your face cracked, and you snickered with laughter. Sam's head dropped between his knees, his body hitching with laughter, a hand to his mouth to keep the food in. Finally managing to swallow, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Ok, seriously woman, how many of those pain pills did you take?" Sam asks curiously.

"One! I swear!" You suck the last of the sauce from your fingers and reach blindly into your purse, feeling around until your fingers wrap around the small pill bottle.

"See? Just one!" You shake them in front of Sam.

"And, uh, that little warning tag there that just says don't mix them with booze, that was just there for decoration, yeah?"

You ponder your words for a moment.

"I thought that it was more of a suggestion as opposed to like a guideline or a rule," You say smoothly, all the while Sam stares you down, unconvinced but amused. You were an adult who was he to tell you what to do?

"Yeah, how about I take these guys off your hands here. Temptation and all that," Sam says, plucking the now sticky bottle from your fingers and putting them in his coat pocket.

"Um, hey now, what if the gunshot victim needs one?"

"Then the gunshot victim can call me," Sam grumbled in a low voice. His face close enough to yours, you could see the 5 o'clock shadow beginning to emerge on his face and the stray sliver of bbq sauce that splashed the edge of his chin.

All you can do is laugh skeptically.

"What?"

"Sam, you went on a date with a woman who was doing a Peeping Tom in your windows which you then shot. Said woman also made the oh so grown-up decision of mixing booze and painkillers. She proceeded to make an ass out of herself, not just at a fancy restaurant, but worst of all, letting you watch me eat wings in pubic, which is never a good idea.

I don't know if you haven't been on a lot of dates recently or what, but I was what you would call a bad date."

"I once saw you hold up a 10 out of 10 scorecard and high five Jenn when I split my pants outside one day. You think I didn't know what I was getting into?" Sam said, cocking his head to the side.

"Jeez, did you see everything we did up there?" You mutter under your breath.

"How bout this?" Sam proposes as he stands up, brushing off his trousers, "Saturday night, we try this again, something more our speed, how's that sound?" He asks, holding out his hand. You take it as he effortlessly helps you off the ground.

"I like that idea," You say with a smile, face warming, and stomach aflutter.

"C'mon, lemme walk you home," He says low in your ear, planting a chaste kiss on the apple of your cheek.

You take ahold of Sam's arm as you walk through the streetlight lined park, down the craggy sidewalk.

"You know, I wouldn't have needed those meds if someone hadn't shot me," You say sardonically, nudging Sam in the ribs with your elbow.

"Jeez, you talk like you've never been shot before. Well, now you have, welcome to the club," He says mockingly.

"You've been shot?" You ask, gripping his arm tighter, your eyes wide in surprise.

"And that story we'll just save for Saturday."