Read Online The Letter Opener by Kyo Maclear - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kyo Maclear
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along, it was just Paolo and me. For nearly four years, Paolo was the centre of my life outside of work.
We met at a record store in a downtown mall. I noticed his T-shirt first. It had a picture of Thelonius Monk in profile. I asked him where he got it. His fingers were deftly flicking through rows of vinyl but he stopped, kept one finger on a record jacket to mark his place, peered at his watch and replied, “One thirty-five.” I laughed at the misunder-standing. His voice was strangely melodious.
Paolo’s eyes were steady and smiling. They peered out from behind a pair of rectangular glasses. He was wearing a belt that missed two loops on his black jeans. We ended up talking until his lunch break was over and he had to return to work.
Before he walked away, he told me the name of the flower store in the mall where he was employed. I followed him a half hour later, enjoying the continual flow of the shopping concourse, its expanding and contracting sense of space, the brightly lit signs for shops called Desire and Mecca, the din and drift of closely packed people.
Bloom, at the north end of the mall, had elaborate gift baskets hanging at the front. One wall was lined with a refrigeration system, the other with flower boxes. Misted roses glistened in a glass vase. Paolo was cutting up bright yellow organza ribbon to tie around bouquets. Clippers, a watering can, loose stems of baby’s breath were scattered on the counter. Tiny white flower heads were burred to his brown cardigan. His face opened when he saw me. He pushed his glasses back on his nose with a knuckle, reached into the refrigerator behind him and handed me a purple flower with a long, thin stalk. It smelled sweet and spicy.
“It’s pretty. Thank you,” I said as I rolled the stem between my middle finger and thumb. I wondered what it would be like to kiss his mouth. There was a fullness to his bottom lip that made me feel agreeably agitated.
“It’s a bit overripe.”
“Overripe?” (His lip? No, silly, not his lip.) I blushed.
“Withered, I mean. The petals should be crisp, not so limp.”
“It still smells good.” I smiled.
“I think so too.” He smiled back.
All sorts of people came into the flower shop from day to day, excited brides-to-be, nervous first-daters, corporate banquet planners. Paolo created hand-tied bouquets of the silkiest Ecuadorian roses, flamboyant arrangements of lilies and towering displays of birds of paradise. The rhythm of retail life, the comfort of familiar tools and props, allowed him to engage people in social exchanges he would otherwise have avoided. Like the shy intellectual who comes alive on the dance floor, Paolo had an extroverted shop persona. The flowers were an expression of some inner exuberance.
It was from Paolo that I learned to tell the difference between freesia and lisianthus, bearded irises and orchids. It wasn’t a simple or transparent relationship; there were times when the man sitting across from me was a stranger, one who revealed little about himself or Argentina, the country of his birth. Yet some force, some mutual want, held us tightly.
Paolo was twenty-nine when we met, four years my senior. I had assumed from his face that he was even older. Top and bottom relayed contrasting messages. His body was lank like a teenager’s, but the skin around his dark brown eyes was creased and shadowed and his dishevelled hair was already flecked with grey.
On our third anniversary, Paolo suggested we move in together. We were sitting at the kitchen table. My cat, Miko, was curled up on Paolo’s lap.
“It seems natural,” he said. “Why should we both be living alone and be paying double rent when we don’t have to?”
“I don’t—” I started.
“We could share this apartment or find a new one, something with three bedrooms, maybe a small garden.”
I felt my stomach tighten. “I like the way things are.”
“I’d cook and clean,” he said, ignoring me.
I know of people
We met at a record store in a downtown mall. I noticed his T-shirt first. It had a picture of Thelonius Monk in profile. I asked him where he got it. His fingers were deftly flicking through rows of vinyl but he stopped, kept one finger on a record jacket to mark his place, peered at his watch and replied, “One thirty-five.” I laughed at the misunder-standing. His voice was strangely melodious.
Paolo’s eyes were steady and smiling. They peered out from behind a pair of rectangular glasses. He was wearing a belt that missed two loops on his black jeans. We ended up talking until his lunch break was over and he had to return to work.
Before he walked away, he told me the name of the flower store in the mall where he was employed. I followed him a half hour later, enjoying the continual flow of the shopping concourse, its expanding and contracting sense of space, the brightly lit signs for shops called Desire and Mecca, the din and drift of closely packed people.
Bloom, at the north end of the mall, had elaborate gift baskets hanging at the front. One wall was lined with a refrigeration system, the other with flower boxes. Misted roses glistened in a glass vase. Paolo was cutting up bright yellow organza ribbon to tie around bouquets. Clippers, a watering can, loose stems of baby’s breath were scattered on the counter. Tiny white flower heads were burred to his brown cardigan. His face opened when he saw me. He pushed his glasses back on his nose with a knuckle, reached into the refrigerator behind him and handed me a purple flower with a long, thin stalk. It smelled sweet and spicy.
“It’s pretty. Thank you,” I said as I rolled the stem between my middle finger and thumb. I wondered what it would be like to kiss his mouth. There was a fullness to his bottom lip that made me feel agreeably agitated.
“It’s a bit overripe.”
“Overripe?” (His lip? No, silly, not his lip.) I blushed.
“Withered, I mean. The petals should be crisp, not so limp.”
“It still smells good.” I smiled.
“I think so too.” He smiled back.
All sorts of people came into the flower shop from day to day, excited brides-to-be, nervous first-daters, corporate banquet planners. Paolo created hand-tied bouquets of the silkiest Ecuadorian roses, flamboyant arrangements of lilies and towering displays of birds of paradise. The rhythm of retail life, the comfort of familiar tools and props, allowed him to engage people in social exchanges he would otherwise have avoided. Like the shy intellectual who comes alive on the dance floor, Paolo had an extroverted shop persona. The flowers were an expression of some inner exuberance.
It was from Paolo that I learned to tell the difference between freesia and lisianthus, bearded irises and orchids. It wasn’t a simple or transparent relationship; there were times when the man sitting across from me was a stranger, one who revealed little about himself or Argentina, the country of his birth. Yet some force, some mutual want, held us tightly.
Paolo was twenty-nine when we met, four years my senior. I had assumed from his face that he was even older. Top and bottom relayed contrasting messages. His body was lank like a teenager’s, but the skin around his dark brown eyes was creased and shadowed and his dishevelled hair was already flecked with grey.
On our third anniversary, Paolo suggested we move in together. We were sitting at the kitchen table. My cat, Miko, was curled up on Paolo’s lap.
“It seems natural,” he said. “Why should we both be living alone and be paying double rent when we don’t have to?”
“I don’t—” I started.
“We could share this apartment or find a new one, something with three bedrooms, maybe a small garden.”
I felt my stomach tighten. “I like the way things are.”
“I’d cook and clean,” he said, ignoring me.
I know of people
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