I went back to the desk, and I stood there, and I waited. I picked at my thumbnail with my index one until it split. My cuticles were dry and cracked, so I picked at them, too. My throat was raw, closed up in a way I’d never felt before.
And then the door opened.
Slowly, at first, like you were unsure of yourself, like you didn’t know if you were in the right place.
My hands curled into fists, my nails digging into my palms as I watched you push the door open all the way.
You were so lost, my little doe. So frightened. So…unsure.
You walked into the office, and the room felt a million times smaller. You sucked all the air from it, shrink-wrapping it around me, demanding attention from every dark corner, every set of eyes on the walls.
I looked around with you, as if it were my first time. Wood-paneled walls with deer heads and animal portraits hanging on them, large windows, low tilted ceiling. The lighting was a soft yellow, creating this cast over you that was almost angelic. The carpet had been ripped out years ago, replaced with dark hardwood.
And then your eyes landed on me. I wondered what you saw, what you thought when you first looked at me. You took me in from across the room, and for a moment that was all we did—stare.
Then I remembered how big I was—tall and broad—and I knew my size was probably scaring you. It seemed to intimidate everyone else. So I made myself smaller. I shrunk down, not allowing myself to stand at my full height, forcing my shoulders to round in so my chest didn’t seem so wide.
I didn’t want to scare you.
Your hair was braided to the side, and the strands caught in the dim golden light, cascading down your shoulder. You moved like a ghost, like you were floating instead of walking. But I saw you take each step, watched as you lifted one foot then the other, over and over and over until you finally stood before me, only the desk separating us.
“Hello,” you said, and I swear it was like the world cleaved in two. Like the birds sang for the first time, like I was finally able to see color, like I could finally breathe after years of being starved of oxygen. “Do you have any rooms available for the night?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice hoarse from disuse. You smiled, but it still wasn’t the real one. It was the one that belonged to strangers—I deserved the real one, and you weren’t giving it to me. Why? Why were you hiding from me? “Just one night?” Your lips twisted to the side as you looked around, as if you were trying to decide if you wanted to spend more time here.
And then you smiled again—a little more real, but still notthesmile.
“Yes,” you said softly. “Just tonight.” I nodded, but I didn’t move. Not yet.
“You traveling far?” I asked, and you shook your head.
“I just needed to get away.”
I tilted my head to the side, watching you. “Why?”
A soft, breathy laugh tumbled from your lips, and you reached up, tucking a fallen piece of hair behind your ear.
“I have some work to do, and I can’t be distracted.”
“Work?” I asked. You adjusted the strap on your shoulder. “What kind of work?”
“I’m a writer.” You looked shy admitting that, and I couldn’t help myself—I smiled at you. It was a closed-lip smile, but I didn’t hand those out to just anyone.
You were everything I’d been waiting for. Shy and quiet and lovely. You were exactly what I wanted.
“You’re a writer?” I let out a low whistle, and a blush crept into your cheeks. “That’s impressive.”
You lifted your shoulder and looked away, like you were embarrassed of the praise and attention.
So sweet. So modest.
So perfect.
“Have I heard of your work before?”
Again, you shrugged. You bit your lip, as if keeping yourself from fully falling into this conversation with me.
“Maybe,” was all you said.
