“Sport,” he replied.
“Okay,” I said hollowly, frozen on my stool.
“So. What does it for you?” he asked, his expression becoming softer.
I shook my head to clear it and watched him casually lift his water glass, his hand wrapping around it, and lift it high. He drank most of the glass then set it down without a sound.
“I like organizing things. I like math. Very ordinary,” I said.
“I enjoy math,” he said, but it sounded like filler.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“Not once,” he said. “I’m suddenly struggling not to turn into myself tonight.”
“Why would you do that? You seem natural.” The most comfortable with his own physical presence I’d ever seen, but I began to worry.
“I don’t want to mishandle this,” he said looking into my eyes, shining. “There is a difference I feel now. Between going after what I want and getting it, or even not getting it. And wanting above these things to give what someone else wants to them.”
“I don’t think I’m sure what I want,” I said, mesmerized.
“It’s still early,” he replied, not moving. “Don’t do that, please, it only makes it worse.” he said, teasing me, but his eyes were begging an appeal.
“Do what?” I frowned. I’d successfully kept my mouth from falling open when he’d said it’s still early. Not quite a poker face, but it should have sufficed.
He studied me for a moment. “Will you come look in the mirror?” he asked, gesturing his head towards the mirror hanging behind the bar. “Come closer,” he said. And I saw him look straight ahead, into his own reflection.
“Sure,” I said apprehensively and leaned towards him. Slowly I came into view beneath his reflection. My skin was bright, almost pearly. My cheeks were flushed pink like I’d worn rouge. But I hadn’t worn makeup. My hand went to my cheek.
“I don’t know why I’m blushing right now,” I said.
“You’ve looked like this since we met. I refer to the other thing,” he explained.
“What?” In our reflection he looked down at me. The way he looked at me there made my breathing hitch. My eyes widened a little. I saw us both there. We looked like a young couple out for the night. What he emitted at me in our image was not hurried. Or insecure, like I felt half the time. It was open. It presided. His eyelids flicked up, and our eyes connected in the reflection. I had to glance away.
“You haven’t seen yet,” he said. He folded his hand indicating for me to come back. I’d moved back to my crowded view. I came close again, feeling his chest not far from shoulder. I waited.
He moved close until his lips were above my ear, “Gabrielle,” he started. I glanced down because my face flushed further. And it looked like my lips wanted to smile. I looked back up and my lips parted. His head was angled down and so close to mine. He stayed focused on my profile, lids lowered, as he moved back and righted himself in his seat. My eyes stayed trained on him.
“Your perfume,” he said, “is like a garden.” His eyes flicked up into the mirror. I had to blink away the fire I saw in his. And refocus. He stayed still letting it burn me. “There,” he said. My eyes slid to my reflection.
I flinched away, abandoning the experiment. The next breath I took in got trapped in my chest and turned into some type of gas that made my head go light and my blood rush—and other things. I exhaled and turned in my stool for a drink of water.
“Let’s try it,” I ordered impulsively, sliding the glasses of beer towards us both, the thick froth as slim a bar coaster now.
“Cheers,” he said, indulging me, and clinked his glass with mine. He took a taste. I took a large gulp. I shivered as it went it down and held back a choke sound.
I set down the glass with a thud and said, sliding it away, “Yep. Still don’t like beer.”
He laughed, as my face pinched up comically, still suffering the rancid flavor. “Excuse me a moment.” I turned away and, very ladylike, extended my tongue and took a wipe of it with my cocktail napkin. Peripherally, he noticed what I was doing and turned to stare up at the menu. I folded the napkin neatly and drank water quickly.
“That was rude,” I apologized, self-conscious. As I angled my stool back towards him, he returned his gaze to me. “I don’t like beer. At all. I think I temporarily forgot that.”
“It was no inconvenience on my part,” he said evenly. “What do you drink?”
Should I admit now I rarely went to parties? Or on dates? No. I traced circles and was forthcoming. “I like a few things I’ve tried. My favorite thing ever is champagne.”
His head angled and he peered at me. “Do you?”
“I don’t have it often,” I explained, back-stepping. “I’m not rich or anything.” My finger began drawing a tiny circle.
“Do you always have such expensive taste?”
“Some things set their own price,” I explained, and I shook my head. “Just a few things. I could buy a cheap bottle, but that could ruin my taste for it altogether. I’m fine going without. It’ll be there when the big stuff comes. Weddings, birthdays, that kind of thing. When I graduate college, we’ll splurge on the good stuff. I’ll have it again.”
“Is money tight for you,” he asked. I hesitated, involuntarily taking in his outfit and he added, plain-spoken, “It is for me, too, currently.”
“We do all right,” I shrugged. “My dad has job security, but it’s blue collar work. I have a full scholarship. My sister is, well, she’s a superstar. My dad always says ‘You make your own life in this world, kids. Make it your oyster, or make it your nail.’ So, that’s what we’re doing.”
“You feel not the same level as your sister.”
“I don’t share her big vision. I’m a worker bee. Like father, like daughter. But I see what I want. I’m trying to be a CPA for its practicality, I think. I can take almost any amount, and it can stretch. You know how it is.” I finished, asking, “What about you?”
He sat back on his stool, his feet had been resting on the lower rung, bowing out his knees. He put a balled fist onto one. “My mother was a nanny and housekeeper, at a very nice house. My father raised me to manage things. I could have learned more from her if I’d adjusted my view.” For a telling moment a flash of regret shot through and passed. He reached for my water and I nodded, welcoming him to it. He sipped.
“Maybe I could invite you?” I offered, spinning the coaster slowly. “My graduation. We could have a real champagne toast together.” I mustered a reassuring smile as he set my glass down.
He glanced at me and took a big drink of water, his cheeks convexing and concaving back in as he swallowed. He set the glass down. I waited, anxious he was stalling. That was years from now.
“I think,” he began, “I think there isn’t much I can think of that would make me miss it.”
“It’s way down the road. I won’t hold you to it,” I disinvested shyly. He arched a brow towards me.
“Can we make a new deal?” he asked. I nodded. “I promise when I come to your graduation, I will bring the champagne.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I said firmly refusing.
“If you promise to toast with me on a grand day of my own.” Whatever he was thinking of made him seem optimistic. I was happy to see he had hope now.
“Done,” I said, smiling foolishly. I pushed away the coaster and turned my seat towards him gingerly, my knees fitting between his without contact, and extended my hand.
“There are others ways to seal it,” he inclined.
He looked like he wanted to kiss me terribly bad, but he didn’t. I was far too inexperienced to make the first move. But one thing was certain: the room had grown too small for us.
“I’m not very hungry anymore. Would you mind if we walked?” I asked suddenly.
“The night is yours,” he said. He lifted my coat from the stool back as we rose and held it open for me. I slid my arms in, hurriedly, down turning my face to hi
de the crimson on my cheeks, and swept my hair from beneath the collar. My hair swished as I turned to look up at him. His jaw was a line from an artist’s pencil, one commissioned to draw something strong. They curved up ever-so-slightly to the bone of his cheeks, his skin smoothed to the eyes, slightly shadowed under an even brow and eyes like deep green stone. Not the features of a pure blooded nobles fabled to have softened or gone round over generation’s toll. He wasn’t that. He was the son of someone strong, someone who worked, and someone, frankly, beautiful.
His lips separated then closed. His eyes searching my face as well. “I don’t wish to be forward, but there is just one small thing I would like to try if you permit,” he said slowly, eyes asking. I nodded.
His hand reached up and stopped just before my lip. I could feel the warmth of his palm on a flattened hand a millimeter away from my check, his fingers stopping short of combing completely into my hair or touching me at all, except his thumb. His thumb finally rested itself on my lower lip and smoothed across in a warm gentle brush. Rough velvet on silk. A jolt sprinted through my body, like a golden white sprite carrying a lit flare. She ran everywhere.
“There,” he said. I didn’t turn away, even though I knew what look he meant now. I knew my eyes were almond slivered, my black eyelashes fanning up to my lids. My brow muscle became lazier too in the center but higher at the peak, the muscles in my lips relaxed, making my pout fuller with blood rushing into them to a darker pink. My eyes glistening, lids concealing the dark rim around the light interior so they shined like spilled treasure. I looked more like Constantine’s Theodora than myself.
“A placebo only, but what is it that quakes through thee and me? Is it more than want?” he asked, gazing into my eyes, as if he had his answer but was desperate for mine. The little white sprite took off again on another lap, resting when she’d traveled every vessel, back where she’d began deep under my breast.
“Are you leaving? We closed the kitchen for the night, but Naneet has a surprise for you.” Mr. Singh gestured towards the small stage hung with string lights. A woman a little taller than Mr. Singh was stepping on stage carrying an instrument. “She wants you to hear her play,” Mr. Singh said, addressing me. “Maybe you will consider a duo?”
“We are flattered,” Daniel said when I didn’t speak. I was busy watching the delicate woman in a low bun and chartreuse sari sit with folded legs on a pillow and tune her instrument. Also I was concocting how to get out of singing. I almost didn’t notice when Daniel laid his palm on my lower back, ushering me. His forearm was brushing against my back as we stepped closer. My spirit sprite took another torched leap around my central nervous system. Daniel pulled out a chair and I sat. He stood beside me and rested his hand on the back of my chair. I peeked back at his hand and looked up. He’d caught me. I blushed at being caught, but he gave me a warm look—and then he winked. I shifted my attention to the stage along with him, expelling a girlish sigh.
Naneet began to play. It was wonderful. I’d never heard anything quite like it. She plucked the strings versedly. It was like being transported, like the history of a people coming out of a song. We listened enraptured. She finally looked up and grinned neat teeth as the tune changed. It became a cover of a modern song, a pop ballad. The three men at the bar began to clap, and Mr. Singh came forward shaking his hips in time. The men began to clap in earnest then. Mr. Singh danced for us while his wife smiled and played.
“Do you know this song? You should sing!” he said to me, as he danced beside Daniel, who appeared entertained.
“Not the words, I’m afraid,” I apologized and ventured my eyes up to Daniel who’s lip twitched, amused.
“Then you will dance with me,” Mr. Singh informed me, clapping and dancing close. Before I could refuse, he took both my hands and pulled me the few feet to right before the stage. Without recourse, I followed his lead as best as could. His dance style was like the venue—a medley. He spun me once or twice and knew every word. She switched to another song and we kept dancing. To avoid tripping over myself, I wouldn’t look at Daniel. So I danced. Just simple moves, fun and silly ones to go along with the lively partner. Like a dance party with Vi before she’d go out for the night. Naneet ended with a big flourish, and we turned to bow and applaud. She stood and bowed and shook my hands inside hers, reaching down from her stage, which became a glowing display case for the tiny talented goddess. She spoke but I didn’t understand the language. I bowed again, but she said something I understood then. She said Daniel. I turned and looked back at him and grinned, just an automatic reflex. She stroked my hair and released my hands. I nodded.
My grin fell away and I turned and walked back to Daniel. I kept my eyes focused on the gold star stitched to his jacket pocket. When my nose nearly touched it, I worked up a smile and looked up.
He threaded his hand in my hair, rustling under my ear, his warm hand on my cheek. I leaned into it responsively. His other arm snaked around my back and settled on the lower part. I closed my eyes and tilted my face up to his as he glided my back closer to him. Our lips met. Just an innocent kiss. I let some of my weight fall into the hand that supported my back and he pulled me closer still. Just an innocent kiss, but my spirit sprite, in her hazed white electricity, she did her thing. She lit a bonfire.
Daniel broke away the kiss. I opened my eyes slowly and found him looking into mine. And he didn’t say a word. We just stared. I wondered, staring into those sparkling deep green eyes, near taken by round pupils, and so focused on me, I wondered. Then we heard a bell ringing.
There was a bell ringing behind the bar. Someone was excited for Daniel. He said something. I may have said something, too. Goodbyes and thanks. Hollow echoes of recordings I knew from years of manners I fell back on.
He took my hand and led me to the door. He asked me to wait there. I didn’t respond but stayed. He went back and I saw him pull something out of his jacket and give it to Mr. Singh. It made Mr. Singh very happy. He returned, and I know Daniel is made of matter, but really he felt like wind. He gusted up and paused to take my hand again and carried me away out into the night. We traveled hand in hand, but soon, he wrapped his arm around my shoulder. And then I felt sure we were matter again. I began to feel my footfalls and the pavement under me. The weight of his arm over me. And we walked.
Eventually, we came around a corner where there were a few street vendors out late. People were filing out of a bar, bundled up and having conversations. Daniel removed his arm from my shoulder when we were standing in front of a food truck. He placed an order and handed the cook a folded bill.
“How do you take Italian?” he turned to me. An attractive group of girls stood nearby. They were watching him, under the Edison strand lights of the food truck as I stood on the sidewalk.
“Third favorite,” I said, the corner of my mouth curving up.
“You don’t mean the men, I hope,” he replied. I was appreciative for the humor.
“Haven’t tried one,” I smiled.
The cook handed Daniel the to-go box inside a bag.
Daniel stepped closer to me and ran his hand through my hair. He glanced over my head at me as he did. “A man swoons with pride treating the figure of his dreams her third favorite food from a take away box.” He’d spoken quietly, with humored curve in his lips but insecurity in his eyes.
“What if it was with her first favorite person?” I said just as quiet.
“Better.” He looked down, taking my chin in his forefinger and thumb. “Would you dine with me, Gabrielle?”
I nodded. He took my hand, and as we walked I turned to see what he had been looking at. A man stood with his friends, watching me as we left. He smiled friendly when our eyes connected. I turned back. Daniel led me not very far until we were standing in front of somewhere familiar. There was a thin alley sealed with a gate between the modern house and the old one in rough shape we’d seen before. He set down the bag and lifted the gate off the ground with his shoulder and reache
d through the other hand to the latch. After some effort with the latch, he set down the gate and swung it open, taking the bag with him.
“Wait on the steps,” he instructed, disappearing into the alley.
I was perched on a stair when I heard the door to the house begin to click. It cracked open slightly. I looked around, watching a few cars whirl past. When it looked clear I leaped up and the door drew open, closing it right behind me.
It was pitch black once the door shut. I called Daniel’s name but he didn’t respond. Suddenly, a light flicked on over the stairwell. The sconces were lit up a grand cherry wood stairway. Oiled but, dusty too. Daniel came from around a corner and I smiled.
He went to the stairs and unscrewed all but one bulb, leaving enough light to see.
“The windows are boarded and the door is solid,” he said. “I don’t suspect anyone could detect the light, but better safe than sorry.”
“Is this a good idea?”
“Will you come with me?” he asked in answer to my reluctance, extending his hand. I accepted it.
I followed him up a flight of stairs and another, flicking on and off switches as we went, adjusting the bulbs. At the top of the third floor there was a rooftop access. He unhooked the lock and pressed with his shoulder until it gave. He opened it wide, revealing a constellation show in the sky. He reached down for my hand and guided me up until we reached the middle of the roof. There was a high spot in the center that was dry, and he led me there by my hand and held it while I sat. He dropped the bag filled with take out between us. I crisscrossed my legs, and he lowered himself down opposite me, propped up on an elbow, stretching his long legs out languorously, crossing his top ankle over the other to rest.
I opened the bag, releasing a delicious scent and awakening an appetite that had gone dormant. I flipped open the box and pressed the lid down so it would stay, but it stubbornly curled back up. I fiddled with it, and his hand covered mine. He ripped off the lid and tossed it aside.
He plucked a ring of crispy food piled beside the calzone and swiped it through a red sauce, popping it into his mouth. I picked up the calzone with both hands.
In the Land of Milk and Honey Page 47