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If he’s so very obviously keen on talking endlessly about himself, he could at least have the decency to not ask you questions in the middle.
Afterall, any answer you give is turned quickly back to him, like he’s giving you questions he wants to answer himself the second you’re finished.
Your responses get shorter and shorter, and you’re no longer bothering even making them try to seem heartfelt. He doesn’t seem to mind.
Your thoughts soar elsewhere, focusing on enjoying the food while nodding or smiling occasionally, on autopilot.
When he’s driving you back to the address you told him is yours (it isn’t), you’re thankful the finish line is in sight. He hasn’t run out of stories about himself. And you might have even enjoyed them, if you weren’t so certain you could have replaced yourself with a mannequin and the night would have progressed much of the same.
You catch a sequence of words that snaps you back into the present.
“And I mean, it’s not like I meant to be offensive or anything, but it’s not like she can expect to find anyone if she keeps dressing like that. I mean, she’s my sister, I love her, but she can’t expect to settle down if she keeps.. .You just can’t respect a woman that’s been around that much. Ya know?”
Your back teeth slide against each other. “I think you’re very brave to say that in front of me, a woman whose sexual history you don’t know. ”
He looks a little shocked, but doesn’t let it deter his course. “Yeah, you’re not like that. I can tell. No way you’ve been around as much as her.”
Straw: meet camel’s back. “Stop the car.”
“What?!”
“Stop it.”
“Oh, come on, your place is just around the…”
“Stop. The. Car.”
When it screeches to a halt on the shoulder of the road, your bag is already over your shoulder, foot out the door before the tires stop rolling.
I barely even hear his exasperated, "You serious?!?"
Turning back to shut the door, you pause only long enough to give my response. “Absolutely.”
You only hear the satisfyingly loud slam of the car door, eyes already ahead, guiding your anger-powered strut.
You’d walk around the block first, just to make sure he didn’t tail, before heading to your own address, five streets over.
If the weather had to be this bitterly cold, it could at least have the decency to snow to make it pretty.
To spite you for thinking it, the sky begins to pour when you’re only two streets away. Rain. Ice-cold, but still unfrozen rain.
And your jacket doesn’t have a hood.
Diverting your course, you steer yourself into a cluster of shops, hopping speedily between the underneaths of the awnings of each storefront. Most of the stores are closed at this time, but you throw yourself, head-ducked, into the first one that shows signs of life.
Scuffing your shoes on the mat is a formality, as you track mud all over the sleek black and white large tile floor, leaving a trail of misery from the door to the first table you see.
“Oh, that…” you pause to pull your soaked coat off, as it’s important you hear yourself. “...Fucking… what fucking right?!” Your coat lands on a leather-upholstered stool with a wet smack.
“The audacity! I mean, Christ!..” you spatter on while removing your sweater underneath, leaving you in only your long sleeve t-shirt. You hadn’t exactly dressed to be waterproof.
An accented voice interrupts your rant. “Does the rain truly warrant this level of offense?”
And the rage finds a new target. It’s an auburn-haired and bearded man, looking at you over the rim of his black-framed glasses.
You can only hope he feels the full force of your apathy in your eyes as you level him with a withering stare as you give your full argument. “Yes.”
You turn back to wring out your hair.
You would have left it. You really would have just left the man to his drink and books. But then you hear him say “Honestly,” under his breath.
You take two steps toward his table and square your shoulders. “Alright! If it was just the rain, it’d still be warranted, for your information, but it’s not, alright, it’s not! Have you listened to the average man these days? Hm? Have you? Because honest to god, I endeavor to have the audacity of one. I had to hear a man go on about himself all night, not giving a single fuck about what I had to say, and he topped it off with slut-shaming his own sister. If you’d like to go ahead and try me, go ahead, I dare you. But right now, I’d just like to not be drenched before I sit down for a cup of something warm. Can you handle that?”
His eyebrows raise and he sets his tea down. “Oh dear. My apologies for the intrusion. I... didn't consider the possibilities.” He pauses for a second as you breathe heavily from the exertion of your speech. After a moment, he adds, “Would you like to continue the train of explicatives?”
You sigh, shoulders slumping to their normal stance again. “You interrupted my streak. I can’t now.”
Just the tip of the corner of his lips quirks, and it’s quiet for a second as you catch your breath. He gestures to the booth opposite of him. “Would you care to join me? So I can interrupt you further and perhaps...make a peace offering of your favored beverage?” It crosses your mind that he might be mocking you, but his eyes seem genuine. And alarmingly blue, a fact it takes you a little off guard to notice.
It’s enough to draw you to gather your things and take the seat opposite him. It’s warmer here than on a stool, at least.
“What would be the favored beverage of choice?” he asks, setting his own tea to the side and folding his hands in front of him.
Drawn by the movement of his hands, you notice that the saucer for his tea cup has… one, two, three, four … you stop counting at five, discarded, used teabags.
“Maybe I should ask you what’s good, since you’ve sampled at least half the menu there.”
He grins in a fashion that showcases all of his teeth, and you like the familiarity of the lines near his eyes seem to have with the expression.
“Oh no, you’ll find I still have at least several more flavors before I achieve that.”
“You say that like it’s something you are trying to achieve.”
“Oh yes. I’m attempting to diversify my preferences.”
“Well, in the spirit of diversifying, and also because I can’t bring myself to navigate a menu currently, I’ll just have whatever you’d think will be good.”
He sits back slightly in the booth. “Heavens. Loss of interest in menus? It must have been a horrid night indeed. I’d be happy to hear about it when I return.” He scoots himself out of the booth and stands, pausing to shake crumbs out of his scarf. “Any allergies I should avoid?”
You scrunch your nose. “No allergies. Just no soy milk, please. It makes things taste… fuzzy.”
“Noted. What name should I give for the order?”
It would be easy enough to give his own, you suppose, if he’s the one getting it, a fact that you don’t point out as your answer with your name.
Extending a hand toward you, he answers with, “Obi-Wan.” You take his hand, and it’s warm in a way that carries all the way up to your cheeks. When he withdraws, you realize some grey smudging on his hand has lightly transferred to yours.
As he walks to the counter, you watch him walk, a quiet confidence about him. The black sweater he wears is more taught around his shoulders that he carries almost ridgedly, and…
Suddenly you wonder if the rain left you anywhere nearing presentable. But you don’t risk checking your reflection on your phone screen. He’s pretty, but god help him if he thinks you aren’t going to be watching your drink as he gets it.
He places both cups in front of you when he returns. “Alright. Since I wasn’t sure which way you want to continue your evening…” he lets his hand fall open next to one cup, then to the next. “Chamomile for if you’d like to relax. And a cappuccino for if you’d like to lean further into chaos by adding caffeine to agitation.”
“Well, it’s obvious which you think I should choose.” You make direct eye contact with him as you take the cappuccino in your hands, the thrill of the small defiance warming your chest as much as the drink to your hands.
He raises a brow. “They’re both yours. You don’t have to choose.”
“So I’ll start with more chaos then work into the relaxation after I’m done being angry.”
“Seems a sufficient strategy to me.”
Your eyes fall to the open book on the table. “Are those your drawings?”
He brushes some stray crumbs off the pages, and when one of the lines smears with the motion, you know the smudge on your hand left from his is graphite.
“Um...yes. I’m a little behind on some work, and this is as pleasant a place as they come to catch up.” He slides his fingers through the handle on his cup and nods to the room as a whole.
It is a unique type of beauty. A modern twist with an antique base, dark wood contrasting with large, open windows. Airy stools with thuddy couches. The pictures on the wall are a collage of modern art and old portraits with gaudy golden frames. And above the bar that could have belonged in a Victorian gentlemans’ den were light fixtures that could have belonged in the most modern of model homes. It was a setup that on its premise could feel stark and pretentious in an untouchable kind of way, but there was something in the atmosphere that made it comfortable. The throw pillows, maybe?
You look back to... Obi-Wan, he said his name was, and he blots at a couple stray drops of tea in the hair above his lip.
No, it’s not the throw pillows.
Your attention falls back to the sketchbook, at the various perspectives of a singular scene. The biggest is something resembling a floor plan, but with textured foliage filling various spaces between clean lines. Then there are angled, unfinished, more detailed drawings that are from the perspective of walking among the bigger plan: tiny snapshots of draping branches and crooked stone paths, flowers or even fountains. It’s immersive enchantment, and you can only imagine how they’d look in the full color of reality.
“They’re lovely. What do you do?” you ask before taking another sip of your liquid agitation amplifier, but it’s seeming less and less appropriate by the minute.
Obi-Wan half-places a napkin over one of the pages, and he tilts his head down, intently focused on his tea suddenly. “Landscape architecture.” His eyes flit back up as he adds, “I’m currently working on something for the botanical gardens. Now what…”
“The botanical gardens!?” You realize your excitement has caused an interruption, and you apologize.
His smile is soft. “No need for that. I was just going to ask what you did.”
“Oh no, a job for the botanical gardens is going to be much more interesting, I promise.”
“My work is the monotony of old news to me, I assure you. I’d rather hear about yours.”
You eye the detail and level of ambiance he’s created on paper, and you doubt that his work is anywhere near monotony to him, but you indulge the request all the same. You give the practiced answers from any small talk conversation of your occupation: short and to-the-point, leaving the least room for feigned interest.
But he asks anyway. And it either isn’t forged or he’s putting a significant effort into acting, which either way, you can appreciate. He asks about it all from a standpoint of how it impacts you. Not questions around figuring how much you make; it’s questions about your coworkers. What tasks you like best and least. If you’re energized by your work.
“Alright,” you sigh, after starting to feel guilty about taking so much about yourself for a time. “But I really am curious about the botanical gardens.”
“It’s a sad circumstance that brought it about, I’m afraid. There was a rather nasty windstorm this past year, and one of the gardens took the brunt of it.” His brow furrows deeply at that, pausing for a second before continuing, “So my company got the job of redesigning the area, and, well, here I am.”
You look back to the sketchbook, opening your mouth to ask before closing it.
“You can look. If you’d like?” His tone is somewhere between shy and teasing, and when he slides the book gently your way, your hand brushes his as you reach for it. You feel a little shy now too.
He goes still as you slowly, savoringly flip through the pages. Again, it’s a back and forth of perspectives, but scattered throughout, stuffed into the sides or in empty spaces, are portraits of individual flowers and plants, some right next to a real dried counterpart, pressed and taped and labeled.
“It’s beautiful.” You leave a finger close to one and look up at him. “And I suppose these are a vital part of the process?”
“Of course. However will they cope not having samples of the plants they are to work with?” His voice is serious, but his eyes are laughing.
“Hm. I’m sure it’s for their benefit.”
You’re not even finished with the cappuccino, but you decide it’s time for the chamomile anyway. When you take the spoon at the side to remove the over-steeped tea bag, you catch a distortion of your reflection in the silvery finish and your stomach drops just a little.
“Excuse me a moment, I’ll be right back.” You want to flee to the bathroom, but you force yourself into a casual walk. When you finally look in the mirror, you want to both laugh and cry. Your eye makeup did not stand up well to the rain, smeared in strange ways, and your hair has a series of still-damp clumps. Your hair is one issue, resolved only partially with some patting down and smoothing. You’ll handle the knots later.
But your face, on the other hand, is something else. You’ll never quite be over the irony of makeup coming off with water when you want it to stay, but deciding to be stubborn when you actually want to remove it with just water.
After several frustrating attempts, the only thing you’ve achieved is smearing everything even more.
Your options are limited, but you keep pretending you have more before you face swallowing your pride and slowly head back to the table, keeping your head down in hopes no one else in the place will see your impromptu racoon impression.
To his credit, Obi-Wan only gives a microexpression of surprise once he sees you, quickly smoothed over back to neutrality.
A nervous laugh is all you can muster. “I can’t get it all off,” you explain as you take your seat again, wanting nothing more than to be under the table.
“Here, I’ll get some water,” and you start to explain it’s no use, but he seems so enthusiastic to help that you let him go anyway.
You watch him interact with the woman behind the counter with a certain familiarity that hints of his frequency at the establishment.
The water he brings back is lukewarm instead of cold, and he’s carrying an actual cloth, which is a large improvement on the scratchy, easily torn paper towels in the bathroom.
You expect him to give them to you, but he crouches down next to your side of the booth, dampens a corner of the cloth and asks, “May I?”
Your breath catches a little at it, this man whose night you’ve disrupted so thoroughly all but kneeling next to you, offering to clean your face. You nod and flit a glance around the room, watching a couple of the scattered patrons give curious looks.
“Pay them no worry, there was a rambunctious young woman earlier that made quite the spectacle with her profanities. This doesn’t hold a candle.”
You squint your eyes at him. “Ha. You should consider a career in comedy.”
“I was thinking a cosmetic consultant. Now, close your eyes, please.”
He says please , but it sounds like an instruction. You’d normally be annoyed, but as you let your lids close, you ponder it. And your skin does spike with something alight under it, but it’s not in irritation. Not at all.
Obi-Wan starts with dabbing at the mess, but eventually starts trying to wipe it instead. “I… don’t want to hurt you with pressing any harder, but it’s just not working.”
Your eyes are still shut, but his words twist deep in your imagination, and you’re thankful for the water cooling rapidly on your quickly heating face.
When you open your eyes, you catch a few more glances turned the way of you both.
“Um… maybe the bathroom again? I think we’re making a bit of a scene.”
When his cheeks pink, you realize you didn’t specify that you meant returning to the bathroom alone.
“Of course.” He stands, and when you do too, you’re in each other’s space, and you notice, unimportantly, that you have to tilt up a little to look him in the eye. He’s not extraordinarily tall, but you might have to go a bit on your toes to…
When he says “lead on,” you could clarify you meant alone. You could use one of the three good excuses you have on the tip of your tongue for him to not come with you if you didn’t want.
If you didn’t want.
He follows you into one of the two single room bathrooms, in full sight of anyone who still cared to watch.
So much for not making a spectacle.
After walking straight to the sink, you have a sinking thought of wondering if Obi-Wan thinks you invited him in here for something else.
When you look back to him, he’s shifting his weight forward and back ever so slightly, overly focused on dipping a new corner of the cloth in the cup of water.
You sit on the counter, thinking too late to wipe the surface of the water, instead absorbing the lingering drips with the fabric of your jeans.
He keeps as respectable a distance as anyone could with the task, but it’s once again to no avail.
You’ve removed makeup for years, you know the drill. Why did you let him follow you in here again? You can’t logic away an excuse, as much as you’d like to.
He’s careful with the water, catching every stray drip before it can get too far, and his hands are steady, and you can once again feel the heat of his fingers through the cloth, but there’s only so long you can pretend this might work.
“The water isn’t going to do it.” It comes out a little more breathless than you want.
“I was wondering if a change of strategy might be due.”
“Well you might wanna brush up on your techniques if you’re hoping for that job in cosmeti.. hey ! ” Some of the water drips down your nose, over your lip, and almost falls into your mouth.
He steps back with a “sorry,” but the barely-there smirk says he’s anything but. “Something oil based, perhaps?”
“If I had any, yes.”
“Oh, wait! I think I know something that will suffice. Wait here.”
You want to giggle. Both at the thought you’d have anything better to do except wait, and how he hurriedly unlocks the bathroom and determinedly struts out as if it were a matter of life and death.
When he returns, a strand of hair has fallen out of place, falling over his forehead. “This should do much better,” is all the explanation he gives as he raises a disposable coffee cup like it’s a trophy.
You could really be doing this yourself, you know. You should say that, you also know.
But your face likes the way his hands feel, despite their obvious lack of practice in removing makeup. When he starts blotting again, you pause at the feel. “Is that… oil?”
“Yes, they fetched some from the kitchen when I asked.”
You open your eyes, and he gives you a look of disappointment at interrupting his work.
“Wait! You went to the counter to get the oil?” You don’t bother keeping the panic out of your voice.
He raises his eyebrow again at this. “Did you think I carried olive oil on my person?”
“So, this whole place watched you come in here with me, come back out in a rush, and return after getting a cup of oil from the kitchen?!”
“I…” He pauses at this, and a blush overtakes him from his face down to where his neck disappears into the high neck of his sweater. Did he seriously follow you in here not even thinking of what it looks like?
“I’ve overlooked the implications in my haste, it seems,” he half-mutters without looking at you. “Perhaps we should finish this as quickly as possible?”
You nod, wanting to both look away from him and never stop looking at him. He asks you to close your eyes, and that makes it much easier.
The oil does much better, even if it does leave you feeling greasy, which you try to wash off with water with only so much success. Wetting your hands with the water to remove the oil from them too, an evil idea makes you smile.
Obi-Wan whips around when he feels the splashed water on his hair, and once he realizes that you’re the culprit, your stomach tumbles a little at him saying, “Oh, now you’re in trouble.”
“Wait, no, I’m sorry, I…” it all sounds very fake even to your own ears, being said through a laugh.
He gets to the still-running water before you can block him, drenching his hands and flicking them towards you to splash you with it.
You make some awful squawking noise and try to get at the water again, and he pushes the handle down to turn it off, guarding it from reopening. You start over to pry him off, and his face and stance say he’s playfully prepared for the challenge, when a hard knock freezes you.
A harsh voice calls from outside, “Hurry the fuck up! There’s people who actually have to use the restroom out here.”
Obi-Wan’s face tints pink again, but his grin is still there when he says, “Perhaps we should…”
“Agreed.”
You stand too close to him when he pushes the door open, and upon noticing the presence of the angry man outside, Obi-Wan steps between him and the direction of your table, and only once you’ve passed does he come after you. His fingers tap lightly at your shoulder in a guiding motion, and you turn your face to him at the contact.
“Sorry,” he says, hand already at his side again.
“You don’t have to be,” you say softly while half your brain still screams something about not being cautious enough. Let him apologize. Let him keep his distance.
You turn your attention away from him, catching the disapproving, curious glances from other tables. Someone says something under their breath as you pass, but you can’t make it out.
“I’m thinking we should probably make ourselves scarce,” Obi-Wan says, and your heart sinks, but you gather your things anyway. “Of course.”
“Oh, I meant..” he pulls on the end of his scarf with one hand and tilts his knuckles in the direction of the wall of windows. “We could go out there?”
You do a quick calculation of safety. There’s windows, and they’re both easy to look and hear through. And his eyes are kind.
Every gaze that comes your way as you pass mortifies you further. The fact that they likely all think they know what you were doing with this too-handsome man in the bathroom. It’s so much less what they think, but more the thought of being with Obi-Wan in that way that has you feeling so very small.
He’s trying to be discrete, squeezing through the glass door with the sign that says “Conservatory Hours” that have long since passed.
The door makes a sound, and you look back to the bar, to see if the staff will intervene. The woman behind the counter simply rolls her eyes and goes back to her task.
But the thoughts of the grumpy feelings from the other room fade when he switches on a strand of lights at the far corner of the room. There are more strands still dim that he doesn’t touch, but it’s enough. Enough light that you can see the circular fountain in the center with benches built onto the outside of it, tables pushed up to it. Enough to see the winding green hanging from the clear ceiling and growing up from large planters and pots on the ground. Enough to see the light bouncing off the raindrops on the ceiling.
It’s not cold, like you thought it’d be, and you realize the temperature control must be on behalf of the plants.
It’s a haven. A garden blooming in winter.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, still taking it in. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Obi-Wan turn his face from you slightly, only catching the last of his lips quirking up, and something clicks.
“Wait. Did you… you didn’t help design this, did you?”
His voice is a little smaller than it was as he explains, “I came first for the job. Later for the tea.”
“It’s stunning,” you compliment again, but the word somehow doesn’t seem sufficient.
Sheepish silence falls over Obi-Wan until you find your spot on the bench under the lights and decide to play with him a little.
“So what, you get special privileges after hours because you designed the place?”
He doesn’t miss a beat, coming back with, “Yes. I insisted it was part of the contract. That I’d have access after hours in the event of any beautiful angry creature traipsing in. That they might take comfort in here.”
“From that description, any alley cat that wandered in would also fit the profile.”
“Oh yes. And I would happily accompany them in here in the event one did. However, I think they’d take more acute interest in the cushions indoors than the conservatory.”
“And here I was thinking I might be special.”
“Well I wouldn’t have assisted a face cleanse in the bathroom for any of them and risked my status of kinship with the staff. That, my dear, is reserved for you.”
“I’m honored,” you say. I’m captivated , you think. More captivated with this interesting man than you have any business being.
His spot on the bench is closer than a stranger would sit, but still far enough away to not be invasive.
You wish he’d be invasive.
“Is business slower in the winter?” You inwardly cringe the moment it leaves your mouth. Weather and work talk. Nice .
“For planning, it’s about as busy as it gets now. A good number of projects need the plans come spring.”
“Makes sense,” you say, and then quickly amend with, “I’m sorry; I’m not very good with small talk.”
“Oh, big talk then. Take your pick. Politics? Religion? Past horrors? Pineapple in savory dishes?”
Another brick in the wall around your heart thuds down at this. Don’t let it happen too fast , your mind warns. “Pineapple is not meant on pizza, if that’s what you want to start with.”
He looks scandalized at this. “It is absolutely. They make for delightful appetizers.”
You cock your head to the side. “Appetizers?”
“Yes. I eat the little pineapples first.”
“That.. that doesn’t count then! You’re eating it separately.”
“No, I’m eating it together, just one at a time.”
You drop your head into your hands. “You’re helpless.”
“I am,” he says, and when you peek at him between your fingers over your eyes, he’s looking very directly at you.
You decide right then the answer to the question you know his apparent chivalry will lead him to ask later: Yes, you will let him give you a ride home.
******
He’s clearing the passenger seat of his car off, tossing things haphazardly in the backseat, until he gets to another leather bound book, which he places down carefully. After you’re in and close the door against the still-falling rain, you think you know what it is before you ask.
“Another sketch book?”
He stops rubbing his hands together over the heat he’s just switched on. “Would you like to see?”
When he stretches back over the console for it, you try not to linger too much on the way it pulls his sweater tight over his chest.
He hands it to you, and his face is all full of what you’re almost certain is hopefulness.
You see almost immediately why. It’s similar but oh so different from his other sketches.
This one doesn’t have any plans, they’re all from the point of view of someone walking through the scenes, and they’re… magical. The trees are large and sweeping and untame, and the plants all around are overgrown and sprawling. There are no stone pathways, only soft grass to walk through.
“Are… these for a project?”
“No. Just for me.”
He’s not moving to put the car in gear, not moving at all. It reminds you of when you were a child and handed an adult something you’d colored, and looking up at what their face would say.
You wonder if your face even begins to show how it makes you feel.
“Everything’s growing naturally. Nothing’s trimmed.” You realize it could come off as a critique so you add, “It’s perfect.”
Obi-Wan smiles and nods, slowly puts the car in reverse, slides his arm over to the headrest of your seat, and looks over his shoulder.
And you wonder if this man that stands too straight and speaks so properly wants something for himself in a world where nothing is trimmed or confined into perfection.
And you wonder if you’re reading too much into things.
You tell him your actual address, and let him bring you right up to your door.
When you have your belongings gathered and are ready to leave his car, you thank him. And you can, you should leave it there.
“Do you want to come inside?” It’s out before you can overthink yourself out of it. And, realizing what is implied, you rush out, “For more tea. If you want?”
He pulls the key out of the ignition. “I’d like that.”
Putting your hand up, you halt the proceedings of moving inside. “You have to pinky promise you’re not a serial killer, though,” you say, aforementioned finger raised in preparation.
Obi-Wan looks at you a bit wide-eyed and then narrows them in mock grave concentration. “Those types are known for their ability to forge authenticity. How can you know to trust the oath of my pinky?”
“It’s alright then. If I have to go somehow anyway, might as well make it worthy of a horror film or the news.”
“Your neutrality in the event of your own death is... more than disturbing. Plus, if I were planning to kill you, I suppose that takes all the sport out of it.”
“Fine then, you pinky promise not to kill me, and I’ll pinky promise to make a good show of not really wanting to die if you do decide to kill me. Deal?”
“And your tertiary promise to entertain the idea of therapy.”
“Oh, I already see one, she’s lovely, and I’d like to think I entertain her very well. She, at least, finds me funny.”
With that he smiles, and his pinky curls around yours.
******
Your huge, slobbery dog greets both of you enthusiastically at the door, and Obi-Wan drops to a knee immediately.
“Oh, hello friend. Yes, it’s quite nice to meet you too. And what is your name?”
“Okie,” you answer for her. “The person I got her from pronounced ‘okay’ strangely, and I thought it was her name. It stuck.”
Obi-Wan looks up at you. “Does this mean her formal name would be ‘okay’?”
You roll your eyes at him as he keeps playing with her while you put the kettle on, calling her “pretty puppy” as she drools all over him.
“You’re aware that the dog you’re declaring a ‘puppy’ is over a hundred pounds?”
When he turns to you, he looks offended. “They never stop being puppies.” Going back to scratching behind her ears, he adds, “Besides, the more closely they resemble a hellhound, the more emphatically I dub them ‘puppy.’
He stands, and supports himself halfway on the counter while Okie does her best to trip him by tangling herself between his legs.
And you realize even after he’s moved away from the counter and Okie has calmed down what it is about the way he stands.
He stands like he’s bracing himself.
And you wonder then if he knows about the floor falling out from underneath.
What kind of earthquakes have you known?
And you wonder again if you’re reading too much into things.
He settles on the couch in the living room, off to one side, and you notice he sits with his legs splayed widely, and you might be annoyed if you weren’t so allured.
You could sit on the other end of the couch. Okie will keep him company anyway.
Instead, you settle right so your outer thigh isn’t even an inch away from his.
His tone and conversation radiate warmth the same way his thigh does for hours.
When it’s later than either of you have a good excuse for him to stay, he straightens his scarf at the door, readying to leave. “Oh, did you want to know what tea it was you had? Let me go find the box,” you blurt out.
He follows you without hesitation into the kitchen with a factitious solemnity “How could I have forgotten?”
He gets to the door one more time another hour later, but then you explain that Okie didn’t get to say goodbye. (And she did, you watched him give her farewell pats.)
You’re being ridiculous, but he plays along.
When you end up chatting on the couch again, he puts his arm across the back of the couch, not fully extended, but you take the invitation and scoot into the space his arm has made.
You can’t remember when you fall asleep, only when you wake and when he’s still asleep on your couch, a blanket over you both and the sunlight creeping in through the blinds.
It startles you a little when you realize your immediate thought upon waking isn’t of your safety. It’s still a worry, but it’s just a little less pressing this morning.
When he finds you in the kitchen, trying not to make noise as you put the coffee on, he watches with a certain type of fond look.
“Can I make you a cup?”
***
He has to go, has to change before he goes into work, and you have to go to yours. He almost makes it out the door when he takes your hand in his. “I… don’t want to be presumptive. But I would very much like to see you again.”
“Me too.” You breathe, in and out, and let “I don’t want to be presumptive either, but… may I... kiss you here?” You place a finger lightly where his beard starts on his cheek.
“Yes,” he says on an exhale.
You move so slowly you start to doubt yourself, but when the softness of your lips meet his cheek, you hear him sigh. He’s still holding your hand, and his thumb starts to brush over the skin.
When you pull back, he gently rubs the back of a knuckle over the same spot on your cheek. “When can I see you? That I might reciprocate without being rushed?”
And you can swear you catch a glimpse of that same type of hopefulness you saw when you opened his personal sketchbook.
And somehow. You think you might not be reading too far into that.