series of hearts knit together, circling my second digit. “You’re wearing a band, yet you’re talking to me in a bookstore.” He laughs low and throatily. “Unchaperoned, at that.”
“We’re downright risqué.”
“So that is your ring toe?” he asks, studying me closely. “Like your ring finger ?”
“Oh, the same general rules apply for feet.” I giggle, staring at the floor. “My foot is happily spoken for, thank you very much.”
“Who’s the lucky guy? He wearing a band inside his loafer? Did the pair of you run off to Vegas together?”
“Who says it’s a wedding ring?” I tease, avoiding his gaze. “Maybe Foot is only engaged.”
“True,” he observes. “Foot is very sexy, so I can’t blame the guy, but I do think she’s worthy of true commitment.”
I haven’t felt this beautiful in years.
I glance upward shyly. Lord, he’s tall, too—I hadn’t realized just how tall until now, when I find myself craning upward to meet his dark gaze. “Truth is,” I say, rising to my full five feet two inches of height. “Toe thinks she’s Cinderella, and she’s still searching for her glass slipper.”
“It’s good to dream,” he says, but sadness veils his eyes again despite our repartee. I wonder if his wife loved fairy tales. I wonder if she believed in happily-ever-after, like I used to once upon a time.
And I wonder if it’s still good for me to dream. Because standing here with Michael Warner, some lost part of me thinks that maybe it is.
“Do you?” I ask, surprising even myself with my directness. “Dream, I mean?”
A scowl forms on his face as he considers my question in silence. Moments spread out, long and eternal, until I wonder if he’ll ever reply.
He removes his baseball cap, slapping it again into his palm with a sigh. “I used to, yeah,” he answers thoughtfully. “But not anymore.” It’s all he says, and then he walks away from me, ambling toward the coffee bar, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen such heaviness on anyone’s shoulders before.
For some reason, watching his retreat makes me recall a bit of wisdom my daddy’s always quoted to me. Hope deferred makes the heart sick.
Daddy would say we’re two virtual strangers with the exact same disease.
Chapter Four: Michael
Standing here naked in my bathroom, hands clenching the edges of the antique porcelain sink, I just can’t believe a woman is coming to cook dinner for me tonight. To cook us dinner, Andrea and me—in less than an hour, matter of fact. Now what would Mr. Richardson have to say about that? I laugh to myself, until with an unexpected shiver I get the sensation of being watched. From some cloudless, ethereal world far above, which only makes me feel guilty and found out and impossibly straight.
Except, that’s ridiculous. We all know my fate was sealed a solid thirteen years ago by one sloppy, drunken kiss out on a gyrating dance floor. It was just supposed to be a joke, straight Michael tagging along with his queer best friend to one of the biggest gay bars in town. Some joke, all right; except that it turned out to be completely on me. Al kissed me that night, a soft, full thing that seemed to last halfway to forever, and all I can say in retrospect is that I never knew a redhead could taste so sweet. Especially not one of the masculine variety. Oh, I was a goner by midnight all right, because by then I doubt we ever could have stopped what we’d begun.
Toweling off my naked body now, it strikes me as strange that no one’s touched me in almost a year. That nobody’s held me or kissed me or made love to me in the middle of the night. I flash on the way Alex used to kiss my bare chest, the way he’d nuzzle up close sometimes when I was sleeping, after he’d been on a call at the hospital. How warm the bed would feel when he climbed back in beside me after being away, the scent of him at those times, impossible to describe, and just as impossible to miss when he came back
“We’re downright risqué.”
“So that is your ring toe?” he asks, studying me closely. “Like your ring finger ?”
“Oh, the same general rules apply for feet.” I giggle, staring at the floor. “My foot is happily spoken for, thank you very much.”
“Who’s the lucky guy? He wearing a band inside his loafer? Did the pair of you run off to Vegas together?”
“Who says it’s a wedding ring?” I tease, avoiding his gaze. “Maybe Foot is only engaged.”
“True,” he observes. “Foot is very sexy, so I can’t blame the guy, but I do think she’s worthy of true commitment.”
I haven’t felt this beautiful in years.
I glance upward shyly. Lord, he’s tall, too—I hadn’t realized just how tall until now, when I find myself craning upward to meet his dark gaze. “Truth is,” I say, rising to my full five feet two inches of height. “Toe thinks she’s Cinderella, and she’s still searching for her glass slipper.”
“It’s good to dream,” he says, but sadness veils his eyes again despite our repartee. I wonder if his wife loved fairy tales. I wonder if she believed in happily-ever-after, like I used to once upon a time.
And I wonder if it’s still good for me to dream. Because standing here with Michael Warner, some lost part of me thinks that maybe it is.
“Do you?” I ask, surprising even myself with my directness. “Dream, I mean?”
A scowl forms on his face as he considers my question in silence. Moments spread out, long and eternal, until I wonder if he’ll ever reply.
He removes his baseball cap, slapping it again into his palm with a sigh. “I used to, yeah,” he answers thoughtfully. “But not anymore.” It’s all he says, and then he walks away from me, ambling toward the coffee bar, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen such heaviness on anyone’s shoulders before.
For some reason, watching his retreat makes me recall a bit of wisdom my daddy’s always quoted to me. Hope deferred makes the heart sick.
Daddy would say we’re two virtual strangers with the exact same disease.
Chapter Four: Michael
Standing here naked in my bathroom, hands clenching the edges of the antique porcelain sink, I just can’t believe a woman is coming to cook dinner for me tonight. To cook us dinner, Andrea and me—in less than an hour, matter of fact. Now what would Mr. Richardson have to say about that? I laugh to myself, until with an unexpected shiver I get the sensation of being watched. From some cloudless, ethereal world far above, which only makes me feel guilty and found out and impossibly straight.
Except, that’s ridiculous. We all know my fate was sealed a solid thirteen years ago by one sloppy, drunken kiss out on a gyrating dance floor. It was just supposed to be a joke, straight Michael tagging along with his queer best friend to one of the biggest gay bars in town. Some joke, all right; except that it turned out to be completely on me. Al kissed me that night, a soft, full thing that seemed to last halfway to forever, and all I can say in retrospect is that I never knew a redhead could taste so sweet. Especially not one of the masculine variety. Oh, I was a goner by midnight all right, because by then I doubt we ever could have stopped what we’d begun.
Toweling off my naked body now, it strikes me as strange that no one’s touched me in almost a year. That nobody’s held me or kissed me or made love to me in the middle of the night. I flash on the way Alex used to kiss my bare chest, the way he’d nuzzle up close sometimes when I was sleeping, after he’d been on a call at the hospital. How warm the bed would feel when he climbed back in beside me after being away, the scent of him at those times, impossible to describe, and just as impossible to miss when he came back
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