“Thank you,” she murmurs, staring down at the ground as she scuffs at little pieces of gravel with the toe of her shoe. I wait until she looks up at me again.
“I think that’s why I get so carried away thinking about you. I know it’s not my place, and I’m sorry for that. I just...I see you hiding behind the help you give others, being content to have their satisfaction as your only reward, and all I can think about is how well you would do if you were under the spotlight yourself.”
She covers it up with an eye roll, but I can see her fighting to hold back a grin.
“You sound like my mother.”
“Your mother must be a smart woman.”
“Gahh!” She starts smacking my chest with her hands like I’m a giant house fly. “You are so smug and irritating sometimes!”
“But only sometimes, right?”
I catch her wrists with my hands and hold her there, palms splayed against my chest, until I know she can feel how heavy my breathing is getting. Her own has picked up too, her eyes wide in the dim light of the square.
“Mostof the time.”
I breathe out a laugh. My gaze slips down to her lips. I release her wrists, but she doesn’t pull her hands away.
“How about right now,chérie?”
“Right now?”
She leans closer, and my chest lurches at the way she has to tilt her head back to keep her eyes on my face. I can smell her hair now, scented with something flowery and fresh. She smells like spring.
“Right now...” she continues. “Right now, you are...” Then she jabs an accusatory finger right in front of my face. “Right now you are one smart remark away from going home alone and playing a game of five versus willy tonight!”
Several people passing by turn their heads to watch me nearly keel over.
“Did you just—Did you—You—” I can only choke out a few words at a time between the hysterical gasping. “Where did you even...Five...F—Five...”
“Apparently it’s a colloquial German term for masturbation,” she answers matter-of-factly, hands propped on her hips.
“How do you know colloquial German terms for masturbation?” I manage to blurt before I’m dying of laughter all over again.
“Because I read stuff, Julien!”
“What stuff do you—Actually, never mind. You can show me exactly what kind of stuff you read as soon as we get to my apartment.”
I grab her hand and practically drag her into the metro station. We skip the crowded escalator and head for the stairs, both of us fighting back residual laugh attacks.
“Five versus willy...” I mutter when we’re on the platform waiting for the train.
“It’s not a bad name for it.”
“It’s a terrible name for it.”
She smirks. “Yeah. It’s a terrible name for it.”
I brush her knuckles with my thumb. She gives my hand a squeeze. I kiss her just as the train comes around the corner.
Fourteen
Monroe
CLOSED: An underdeveloped wine whose flavours are not yet fully exhibiting their potential
I can’t rememberthe last time someone picked me up for a date. It might have been prom. I suppose the advent of internet stalkers and text messaging justifies the way collecting your date at their place of residence has fallen out of fashion, but I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of romanticism when Julien asked what time he’d be picking me up tonight.
