The kind of laugh that made me wish I could bottle it so I could put it on a shelf and save it for a later time. “I suppose you’re right. It is borderline stalker behavior.”
I heard Paul making his way back into the parking lot, grumbling to himself, but just loud enough for us to hear.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re too nice?” I asked, trying to speak up to drown out Paul’s continued tirade.
He looked puzzled. “No. Never. Why do you say that?”
“Because I could barely contain slapping him straight across the face,” I said.
“Oh,” he said. “Under any other circumstances I probably wouldn’t have remained so calm.”
“Other circumstances?”
“I wouldn’t want you to witness two idiots brawling for your attention,” he said. “And despite what you want to think, Paul is just concerned because he cares for you.” His face was unconvincingly flat. He pulled the door open with one hand, managing to keep me firmly rooted where I was.
“I think you’re giving him way too much credit,” I said, taking an internal sigh as the warmed air blanketed around me.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he allowed, steering into the empty common’s area. Every other night it was bursting at the seams with students, but tonight, following a basketball game, there were more parties taking place than students enrolled. “But I would have had to let you down to teach him a lesson, and I wasn’t ready for that yet.”
He cleared his throat, distracting his attention to the square room that screamed utilitarian . . . seventies-era style. Table lamps that were tall, ugly, and topped by even taller and uglier lampshades, orange and mustard yellow was dosed over everything that would hold still, and olive-colored carpet that had at one time been shag before several decades of passage had smashed it into a bad looking toupee. Curling his nose, he looked between the two threadbare, stain-ridden couches as if trying to decide between the lesser of two evils.
I made his decision easy. “That one will work,” I said, pointing to the couch against the picture window that looked somewhat less distressed and more “hygienic” than the other.
He cringed, looking around as if wanting to find a blanket he could spread over it before setting me down. “You’re as brave as you are beautiful,” he said, arranging me on the couch.
Knowing what I did of my beauty—and how it’s lack thereof would be just as obvious to him—he must think of me as the cowardly lion.
“Do you mind if I take a look,” he asked, eyeing my head anxiously.
“Be my guest.” I couldn’t feel the warmth of new blood running down my face any longer, but I could only imagine how I looked. Blood drying and cracking like zebra lines down my face, and I was positive my impossible hair looked like a bomb had exploded in it.
As if reading my mind, he went over to the sink, pulling a piece of cloth from his back pocket. Was that a handkerchief? Did guys still carry those around? The last time I’d seen one had been when my great-grandpa offered one to me after I’d fallen from the tree house in the large sycamore out back when I was five.
Even then, disaster prone.
He adjusted the temperature of the water before running the cloth through it. Given everything else about him, I don’t know why I couldn’t do anything but stare at his hands—lined with blue veins, canyons of flesh set between mountains of bone—but they were the most intriguing pair I’d seen. Hands that were strong and flawless, but also weary and aged.
He hurried back to me, kneeling beside me as he dabbed at my face with the damp cloth. He finished with my lips, pressing them clean before removing the cloth. His eyes stayed fixed on my mouth, which naturally gave me heart palpitations.
He looked up, his eyes telling that he hadn’t meant for me to notice him so fixated. He sucked in a breath through his freshly parted lips, closing the distance between us at an
I heard Paul making his way back into the parking lot, grumbling to himself, but just loud enough for us to hear.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re too nice?” I asked, trying to speak up to drown out Paul’s continued tirade.
He looked puzzled. “No. Never. Why do you say that?”
“Because I could barely contain slapping him straight across the face,” I said.
“Oh,” he said. “Under any other circumstances I probably wouldn’t have remained so calm.”
“Other circumstances?”
“I wouldn’t want you to witness two idiots brawling for your attention,” he said. “And despite what you want to think, Paul is just concerned because he cares for you.” His face was unconvincingly flat. He pulled the door open with one hand, managing to keep me firmly rooted where I was.
“I think you’re giving him way too much credit,” I said, taking an internal sigh as the warmed air blanketed around me.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he allowed, steering into the empty common’s area. Every other night it was bursting at the seams with students, but tonight, following a basketball game, there were more parties taking place than students enrolled. “But I would have had to let you down to teach him a lesson, and I wasn’t ready for that yet.”
He cleared his throat, distracting his attention to the square room that screamed utilitarian . . . seventies-era style. Table lamps that were tall, ugly, and topped by even taller and uglier lampshades, orange and mustard yellow was dosed over everything that would hold still, and olive-colored carpet that had at one time been shag before several decades of passage had smashed it into a bad looking toupee. Curling his nose, he looked between the two threadbare, stain-ridden couches as if trying to decide between the lesser of two evils.
I made his decision easy. “That one will work,” I said, pointing to the couch against the picture window that looked somewhat less distressed and more “hygienic” than the other.
He cringed, looking around as if wanting to find a blanket he could spread over it before setting me down. “You’re as brave as you are beautiful,” he said, arranging me on the couch.
Knowing what I did of my beauty—and how it’s lack thereof would be just as obvious to him—he must think of me as the cowardly lion.
“Do you mind if I take a look,” he asked, eyeing my head anxiously.
“Be my guest.” I couldn’t feel the warmth of new blood running down my face any longer, but I could only imagine how I looked. Blood drying and cracking like zebra lines down my face, and I was positive my impossible hair looked like a bomb had exploded in it.
As if reading my mind, he went over to the sink, pulling a piece of cloth from his back pocket. Was that a handkerchief? Did guys still carry those around? The last time I’d seen one had been when my great-grandpa offered one to me after I’d fallen from the tree house in the large sycamore out back when I was five.
Even then, disaster prone.
He adjusted the temperature of the water before running the cloth through it. Given everything else about him, I don’t know why I couldn’t do anything but stare at his hands—lined with blue veins, canyons of flesh set between mountains of bone—but they were the most intriguing pair I’d seen. Hands that were strong and flawless, but also weary and aged.
He hurried back to me, kneeling beside me as he dabbed at my face with the damp cloth. He finished with my lips, pressing them clean before removing the cloth. His eyes stayed fixed on my mouth, which naturally gave me heart palpitations.
He looked up, his eyes telling that he hadn’t meant for me to notice him so fixated. He sucked in a breath through his freshly parted lips, closing the distance between us at an
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