He moves back to his seat, breaking our contact and biting his lower lip. And for the first time, I notice the way his eyelashes frame his eyes. Maybe it’s the lack of hair on his head, but they’re long and curl up, almost touching his eyebrows when he blinks. How soft would they be between my fingers? Crap. I’m staring at Vincent’s exquisite eyelashes.
“Tell me something you love,” I say, scrambling to redirect myself.
Vincent’s eyes stare at the ceiling, searching. “Rumours.”
“Gossip? About celebrities? Ummm, I remember when Demi Moore and Bruce Willis split. That’s where my knowledge of celebrity news runs out.”
“No, the album,” he says with a laugh. “By Fleetwood Mac. I love it.”
Nodding, I try to remember which songs are on that specific album. The CD might be in a crowded bin under my bed with other vestiges from college.
“A solid choice. And what do you do … for fun? Not work,” I clarify.
“Hmmm.” His eyes find the ceiling again, apparently his tell for deep thought. “Well, I love LEGO.”
“Really? That’s brilliant.”
“Something about the organizing, counting, building, following directions … it calms me.”
“I can see that,” I say. “I haven’t built a set in years. My granddaughter is more into … dramatics.”
“You should do one sometime,” he says, and my face immediately scrunches.
“I’m not the most … graceful. I’d lose a piece. Knock it over. Ruin it somehow.”
Vincent’s entire body seems to tense at the mention of a missing piece. Or maybe it’s me.
“Listen, I need to tell you something,” he says.
“Shoot.” I wink and hope I don’t appear an ass.
Vincent takes two quick breaths before speaking.
“I have OCD. Messes … They’re one of my triggers. Crumbs. Dirt. Chaos in general.”
My ribs grow tight, and I’m suddenly short of breath. The dizziness comes marching back, dragging along some lightheadedness for flavor. If you looked up “mess” in the dictionary, there’d be photos of me in various states of disarray. Slipping with a tray of food in the cafeteria. Tripping on my own feet and falling on my ass during the third-grade science fair. Stumbling over the wires on the stage at the holiday concert.
“But that’s not it. Sometimes I get stuck. It’s hard to explain.” Vincent nudges the napkin sitting next to his plate. “But with certain tasks, it’s like falling into a pit and not being able to climb out until the job is done.”
“You like to finish what you start,” I say, offering a smile.
“Yeah, you could say that.” Pushing his shoulders back, Vincent takes a deep breath. “And while I’m confessing, contrary to my profile, I’m not really allergic to cats. Or dogs. Animals just scare me. Technically, the germs scare me. Generally speaking, animals are filthy,” Vincent says, glancing in his lap, and somehow this moment of vulnerability makes him even sexier.
“Oh, well, that explains the wine on my shirt.” I take my napkin, tuck it into my collar, and fan the fabric to cover the offending spot. “There, all gone.” I smile. “Out of sight, out of mind.”
“Thank you,” he says, “I just want to be honest because, well, it’s been an issue. For other men.”
“Vincent, I don’t know much about OCD, but you seem sweet, and nobody’s perfect. Look at me.” I motion toward my oversized napkin bib. “And, I’m not other men. And well, your SWISH photo didn’t do you justice,” I say, and Vincent’s ears tinge pink. His lack of hair allows me to notice the gentle flush of his skin around his ears, enhancing his handsomeness.
“Oh. Um, thanks. You too, I mean, you look better than your photo.”
“Thank you. My daughter took it and promised it was the best option. She tried to convince me to color my beard first, but this is me.” My fingers run through my soft scruff. “I try to take care of myself, but you know, once you round fifty, everything gets so much harder to, well … ” I pause and pat my stomach. “Take care of.”
“I bet. I mean, I can imagine. I just turned forty in September, but I can already feel gravity becoming an adversary,” he says. “And the beard. Don’t change a thing.”
A smile blossoms on my face. He likes the gray.
“Ah, forty, you’re a baby. Forty is fabulous. I started discovering my true self when I hit forty. But fifty, fifty is the new thirty, or that’s what I’m told. I’m fifty-two, by the way.”
