another way for you to go about that. Don’t we?’
There’s something that definitely clicks into place, in his expression, when I talk a certain way or say a certain thing. His lips part and his eyes meet mine, without a hint of trying to squirm away. I think there’s even something of a smile, playing at the corners of his mouth.
That secret smile – the one that I do think of as ours. Somehow I doubt he’s offered it to too many people.
‘Whatever you think’s best,’ he says, and I like that. I like that a lot.
I park myself on the edge of the desk, one leg crossed over the other. His eyes go immediately to the expanse of thigh I’ve exposed.
‘So, for example. You could try reading to me, again. I did enjoy you reading to me.’
‘Chapter eleven of Great Expectations ?’
He has such a hidden sense of humour! It’s fabulous .
‘How about chapter five of some dirty book you enjoy, that tells me exactly what you really like and how to go about it.’
A crease appears, between his brows.
‘Or we could make a much more fun game of it. I mean – make a game of it that you would appreciate. You circle all your favourite bits in all your real favourite books, and I can go out and find them, and surprise you. How about that?’
His shoulders drop a little, and he glances around the shop. Could be that I’ve hit on the wrong sort of thing. But then he says, ‘It would ruin the stock.’
And I have to laugh. That’s the first place his mind goes to – ha!
‘I’ll pay for the books you use, personally,’ I say, and maybe it’s the dirty connotations of the word use that makes him colour. Maybe it’s something else. He’s fidgeting, now – all the focus on the bookstand drained away. Even as I think he might resist, I can see his eyes darting busily over all my lovely books, searching.
It’s a hungry sort of search. He bites his bottom lip.
‘Go ahead,’ I tell him. ‘I won’t look.’
I slide off the desk and make as though to turn back to the window – though I wait long enough to watch him stand, and wipe his sweaty palms on his trousers. He’s in grey, today – grey pants, grey tank top, checked shirt underneath. Tie so firmly knotted it looks as though it’s about to strangle him.
‘You’re still looking,’ he says, mouth curled up at the corner – and I could eat him up, I really could.
This . This is it. This is what he needs and what I need, immediately.
I turn and look out of the window, but this time I don’t see the little crooked street beyond.
‘Should I just …’ he begins, but I tell him not to say anything at all. Just do.
And then I can hear him, somewhere behind me, running his fingers over the books. I know that’s what he’s doing – it’s a slick, almost fluttering sound. And I’m so tuned to it, that I can hear him taking one off the shelf, too.
It doesn’t take long for him to apply pencil to paper. I recognise that sound, as much as I recognise any of the others – if not more so. A kind of scratching swoop, like music to my ears.
I’m not Andy , I think. Show me who you are, really. Show me the limits .
When someone comes into the shop, I almost jump right out of this brand new skin I’ve found myself in. And the way he looks at me suggests I seem as though that’s just happened. Like I’m examining him as though he’s an alien from Mars.
‘Hello,’ the customer says, and I remember to reply in English. Not Martian.
‘How are you today?’ I say, which sounds reasonably human, to my ears.
The customer – we’ll call him guy-in-cardigan – nods, and then starts pretending he’s not really looking for what he’s bound to be looking for. Which I suppose wouldn’t be so bad – it’s very unthreatening, after all. Only Jeanette comes in then, too, right after Cardigan, and Gabe is visibly a little more disturbed by that.
Lovely chipper Jeanette, whom he knows works next door.
I glance back at him, and he’s just
There’s something that definitely clicks into place, in his expression, when I talk a certain way or say a certain thing. His lips part and his eyes meet mine, without a hint of trying to squirm away. I think there’s even something of a smile, playing at the corners of his mouth.
That secret smile – the one that I do think of as ours. Somehow I doubt he’s offered it to too many people.
‘Whatever you think’s best,’ he says, and I like that. I like that a lot.
I park myself on the edge of the desk, one leg crossed over the other. His eyes go immediately to the expanse of thigh I’ve exposed.
‘So, for example. You could try reading to me, again. I did enjoy you reading to me.’
‘Chapter eleven of Great Expectations ?’
He has such a hidden sense of humour! It’s fabulous .
‘How about chapter five of some dirty book you enjoy, that tells me exactly what you really like and how to go about it.’
A crease appears, between his brows.
‘Or we could make a much more fun game of it. I mean – make a game of it that you would appreciate. You circle all your favourite bits in all your real favourite books, and I can go out and find them, and surprise you. How about that?’
His shoulders drop a little, and he glances around the shop. Could be that I’ve hit on the wrong sort of thing. But then he says, ‘It would ruin the stock.’
And I have to laugh. That’s the first place his mind goes to – ha!
‘I’ll pay for the books you use, personally,’ I say, and maybe it’s the dirty connotations of the word use that makes him colour. Maybe it’s something else. He’s fidgeting, now – all the focus on the bookstand drained away. Even as I think he might resist, I can see his eyes darting busily over all my lovely books, searching.
It’s a hungry sort of search. He bites his bottom lip.
‘Go ahead,’ I tell him. ‘I won’t look.’
I slide off the desk and make as though to turn back to the window – though I wait long enough to watch him stand, and wipe his sweaty palms on his trousers. He’s in grey, today – grey pants, grey tank top, checked shirt underneath. Tie so firmly knotted it looks as though it’s about to strangle him.
‘You’re still looking,’ he says, mouth curled up at the corner – and I could eat him up, I really could.
This . This is it. This is what he needs and what I need, immediately.
I turn and look out of the window, but this time I don’t see the little crooked street beyond.
‘Should I just …’ he begins, but I tell him not to say anything at all. Just do.
And then I can hear him, somewhere behind me, running his fingers over the books. I know that’s what he’s doing – it’s a slick, almost fluttering sound. And I’m so tuned to it, that I can hear him taking one off the shelf, too.
It doesn’t take long for him to apply pencil to paper. I recognise that sound, as much as I recognise any of the others – if not more so. A kind of scratching swoop, like music to my ears.
I’m not Andy , I think. Show me who you are, really. Show me the limits .
When someone comes into the shop, I almost jump right out of this brand new skin I’ve found myself in. And the way he looks at me suggests I seem as though that’s just happened. Like I’m examining him as though he’s an alien from Mars.
‘Hello,’ the customer says, and I remember to reply in English. Not Martian.
‘How are you today?’ I say, which sounds reasonably human, to my ears.
The customer – we’ll call him guy-in-cardigan – nods, and then starts pretending he’s not really looking for what he’s bound to be looking for. Which I suppose wouldn’t be so bad – it’s very unthreatening, after all. Only Jeanette comes in then, too, right after Cardigan, and Gabe is visibly a little more disturbed by that.
Lovely chipper Jeanette, whom he knows works next door.
I glance back at him, and he’s just
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