The Bodies We Wear by Jeyn Roberts Page A

pile of shredded paper, he starts tearing apart a second one. And then a third.
    The waitress brings our coffee. She goes back for the pie.
    I wait.
    Chael has a large pile of destroyed napkins. He pauses only to start opening creamers and dump them in his coffee. The brown liquid quickly grows lighter. Then he adds a large amount of sugar. Coffee sloshes over the side of the cup and he cleans it up with a fresh napkin.
    This is turning out to be the most boring coffee date I’ve ever been on. Of course, considering I don’t socialize, it’s also technically the first coffee date I’ve ever been on. Definitely not memorable. I would have expected there to be a little more talking.
    “You must drink a lot of coffee,” I say when he first lifts his cup up to his lips. He pauses, watches me with bright green eyes that look a little puzzled. I smile.
    “No, why?”
    “The caffeine? You fidget enough,” I say, nodding in the direction of the shredded napkins and stacked creamers. “You can’t seem to sit still.”
    “Nervous energy,” he says.
    “And you play with yourself a lot.”
    “What?” He looks seriously alarmed and it takes me a few seconds to realize how my comment must have sounded.
    “I don’t mean that way. I mean you’re always touching yourself. Oh crap, I don’t mean that either.” I’m blushing now, my cheeks burning. I can’t seem to get my words out properly. “It’s like you’re always pulling your hair or wiggling your fingers.” I point to his hand, which is beating a rhythm on the table. “You’re doing it right now. It’s like you’re not comfortable with your body.”
    He leans forward, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “That’s an odd thing to say. Why would you say that?”
    I shrug. “I don’t mean anything nasty. Sometimes I don’t think enough before I speak. No filter between brain and mouth.”
    “Maybe this isn’t my body,” he says, and then he laughs a bit too hard. “It could be a loaner.” The waitress brings over his pie and he immediately digs in, breaking apart the crust with his fork. Cherry filling sticks to his lips.
    “You’re weird,” I say, my cheeks slowly growing less flushed. “But that’s not an insult. It’s a compliment. I like weird.”
    He gives me a half smile. His green eyes sparkle underneath all that dark hair.
    “Where are you from?” I ask, trying to remain nonchalant. “I haven’t seen you around before.”
    He pushes his pie plate out of the way. He seems to have lost interest in it after a few bites. “I grew up here but I’ve been away for a long time. Just recently came back.”
    I take a sip of coffee. “Where did you go?” A few gutter rats walk by outside, their eyes hollow. Everything about them attracts the darkness. Even the shop light won’t touch their skin. One of them looks in and stares right at me without seeing. So young. It’s not fair.
    “Just away,” Chael says. “Nowhere special.”
    “Why did you come back?” I ask, still looking out the diner window. A car with a busted back window slowly drives by, splashing the sidewalk with rainwater. “I mean, if I managed to get away from this city, I’d never come back.”
    “Where would you go?”
    I shrug and take a sip of coffee, still looking out the window. “I dunno. Somewhere warm? Somewhere I’m not going to be judged for who I am. Maybe Africa. Or New Zealand. I hear things are better there.”
    “Not really,” he says. “Heam is everywhere. Even the warm places.”
    “Oh? You’re an expert on Heam? You learned this during all your travels but you still don’t know why you came back?”
    Chael doesn’t say anything for a long time and finally I tear my gaze away from outside and look at him. He’s watching me carefully. His head tilts to the side and he runs his fingers absently through his drying hair again.
    “I’m not sure why I came back,” he finally says. “It wasn’t my choice but at the same time it was my only