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nst him, he clenched the pole a bit tighter. He breathed through his mouth and kept his eyes on the map, looking away only to check the name of each station as the train slowed to a stop. Once he glanced at me. I smiled and made a show of relaxing in my seat. With a glare, he turned away and ignored me for the rest of the trip.
I had lunch with coworkers. As we were returning, I saw a familiar figure sitting on a bench outside my office building. I made some excuse for not going inside and circled back to Clay.
"What's wrong?" I asked as I came up behind him.
He turned and smiled. "Hey, darling. Good lunch?"
"What are you doing here?"
"Guarding you, remember?"
I paused. "Please don't tell me you've been sitting here all morning."
"'Course. I didn't figure I'd be welcome in your office."
"You can't just sit here."
"Why not? Oh, let me guess. Normal people don't sit on street benches. Don't worry, darling. If I see any cops, I'll switch to the bench across the road."
I glanced toward the building, making sure no one I knew was coming out. "I don't work in my office all day, you know. I'm covering a rally at Queen's Park this afternoon."
"So I'll come along. At a safe distance, making sure you don't have to endure the horror of publicly associating with me."
"You mean you'll stalk me."
Clay grinned. "A skill that can always use improvement."
"You can't just sit here."
"Back around we go ..."
"At least do something. Read a book, a newspaper, a magazine."
"Sure, and let some mutt sneak past while I'm doing the daily crossword."
I threw up my hands and stalked into the building. Five minutes later, I returned to his bench.
"Miss me already?" he asked.
I dropped a magazine over his shoulder and onto his lap. He picked it up, glanced at the cover, and frowned.
"Rod World?"
"It's about cars. A good guy kinda magazine. At least pretend to read it."
He flipped through the pages, stopping on a photo of a bikini-clad redhead sprawled over the hood of a Corvette Stingray. He scanned the text, then examined the picture.
"What's the woman doing there?" he asked.
"Covering a scratch on the hood. She was cheaper than a new paint job."
He flipped through a few more pages of barely dressed women and classic cars. "Nick used to have magazines like this when we were kids. But without the cars." He rotated a photo sideways. "Or the bathing suits."
"Just pretend you're reading it, okay?" I said, turning back toward the doors. "You never know. Maybe I'll get lucky and you'll find something you like."
"I thought you liked my car."
I started walking away. "I wasn't talking about the cars."
