Promise by Dani Wyatt

drinking wine and laughing with him.
    Laughing.
    Because he’s funny. Sort of. I think.
    I haven’t busted out a laugh like that in months, and then it was with Bruce, and he is completely harmless when it comes to that kind of flirtation.
    Is that what he was doing? Flirting? Yes, most definitely. And me? No, I was not flirting. Was I? Oh god, please, no.
    When I’m on stage at the club, men look at me, but I don’t feel anything. They aren’t necessarily interested in me. I’m an anomaly. A sexual aberration.
    And they never flirt.
    They gawk.
    They ogle.
    I’m like an exotic jar of pickles they want to pick off the shelf and take home. But, they’ll throw the empty jar away when they’re done.
    God, my mind is strange, pickles? Really, I’m a jar of pickles?
    Anyway, it’s never just flirting.
    I’ve showered Mr. Fitzgerald (Paul actually, but I like to show respect, keep a professional distance), changed his bandage and read to him for an hour, and now he’s leaning his head back on the burgundy La-Z-Boy, his breathing deep and even.
    Now what?
    I tap the toes of my brown loafers on the cement floor, unsure what to do next.
    Every once in a while, I can hear the sound of movement out in the enormous space of the loft. I wish I’d brought my jacket into the apartment with Mr. Fitzgerald, then maybe I could just slip out.
    I catch a glimpse of the orange of my jacket still hanging on the back of the chair.
    Where he put it when he slipped it off my shoulders, when he brushed my neck with his fingers, and I forgot how to stand.
    He’s paid me for five hours today already, and I’m just pushing three and a half now. What am I supposed to do for another ninety minutes with Mr. Fitzgerald snoring away?
    I feel the distinctive tension low in my belly playing over and over the two times we’ve touched. Barely touched. But, it felt like some Oprah “ah ha” moment. Dang it.
    STOP.
    I don’t stop. I think more. I heard him take a deep breath as though the contact between us latched onto something painful inside of me that he felt as well.
    STOP STOP STOP
    This is not me. I’m not that girl, the one that turns from lead to liquid at the touch of a man.
    I lean forward, tapping my feet faster, and I see Beckett sitting at one of those massive tables covered in notebooks and what looks like letters. I think they are letters because each one has an envelope stapled to the top.
    Maybe it’s fan mail. Maybe he’s some secret porn star, and I should be going all fangirl over him.
    But, there are other stacks of odd-sized papers without envelopes. They are all set in absurdly perfect stacks at absurdly perfect distances from each other. He’s got some OCD stuff going on.
    This place is as organized as a barracks. I thought I would do some cleaning earlier when I put Mr. Fitzgerald in the shower, but there’s nothing to clean. Even the cement floor is sparkling.
    He’s got one letter or whatever it is to his right, there's a notebook open in front of him, and he’s drawing or writing in it. The notebooks are larger than the kind you take to school, and I raise my head and squint to try to get a better look.
    They aren’t notebooks, after all; they’re sketch books. And, he’s sketching.
    I can’t help the little, ironic giggle that comes out.
    Maybe because he doesn’t look like the sketching type. If you took a picture of him and regarded it objectively, you would immediately think gym rat or jarhead.
    That’s completely unfair, but I know how people decide who you are at first glance. And, that is what you would think, looking at not just his size but his face and the presence of him. The force that surrounds him.
    When he speaks to me, there is a protective sort of kindness that comes through. Something about him makes me want to step closer even as something else about him pushes me away.
    I look over as Mr. Fitzgerald lets out a groan and adjusts himself in the wine colored lounge chair. The little