He didn’t speak, which surprised her and, when she gave him a sidelong glance, he seemed intent on the bottom of his wine glass. At last she straightened. “Great band, huh?”
“Yes. Good covers. I hate to say it, but they remind me a bit of the White Stripes – the guitar playing mostly, not the song choice.”
Kate smirked inwardly. Her freshman room-mate had managed to bring every musical conversation back to the White Stripes. She hadn’t thought of that in years, though it struck her as odd that a middle-aged man would make a White Stripes comparison.
“I never took my eyes off your purse, by the way,” he said.
“What? Oh. Thanks. I appreciate that.”
Suddenly, he pushed his glass away and looked into her eyes. “Kate, I need to ask you a favour?”
“Me? Sure. What?”
“Take my hand.”
Instantly, she retreated a few centimetres. “What?”
“I swear, I’m not a weirdo, but I need to tell you something and I can’t do it unless I’m holding your hand.”
She didn’t want to. She’d had enough bad experiences with men, but he looked so harmlessly earnest, she relented. Nonetheless, she was glad there were still a number of partygoers circulating.
Even after she nodded ‘yes’ though, he didn’t offer his hand. In fact, he appeared to be gripping the tabletop as if any movement on his part might scare her away. So Kate extended her hand. He took it gently, and she immediately felt a light charge, like the one she got touching her tongue to a nine-volt battery, only more pleasant.
“You gonna read my fortune?” she said with a nervous smile.
But however pleasant the current she was feeling, it was clear he was feeling something else. He gazed at her hand, face tight with emotion.
“Patrick?” she said after a beat.
“Sorry, it – do you feel it, too?”
“Yes.”
“It’s OK, though?”
“Yes.”
His hand was cool and dry, and he let her do the gripping.
“Kate,” he said, “I know things about you.”
Kate’s heart seized. He was going to try to get her to join his church or his cult or his drive to eliminate the secret magnesium vapours the government was putting in our food.
She began to pull away. “Ah, Patrick, um –”
He caught her. “You have a dog named Klondike, your sister’s name is Liz and youhatethe White Stripes.”
Kate blinked, alarmed. He was right – on all counts. He saw her attempt to cover the surprise. “Anyone could have told you that,” she pointed out carefully. “Besides, doesn’t everyone hate the White Stripes?”
The flecks of green danced in his eyes. He liked her sense of humour, which lowered the creep-out quotient considerably. She’d let this go on a little longer. “So, you’ve been asking questions. This is election year. You’re, like, what? Part of the opposition?”
He relaxed his grip, flashing an apologetic look. “In a sense. But this has nothing to do with politics.”
“My sister and my dog. Not exactly Harry Houdini stuff, OK?”
The corner of his mouth rose, buoyed by her challenge, and his eyes narrowed in a calculating squint. “I’m walking a fine line here between trying to convince you and trying not to scare you,” he said after a long pause.
“Oh, you passed that line a few minutes ago, my friend.” She gazed at the bronze of his skin and the intricate pattern of hairs peeking from his sleeve. His was a fine hand to hold, she noted objectively, strong and generous, and that odd tingle of connection still burned pleasantly across the surface of her palm. That, more than anything, made her curious enough to continue.
