Page 52 of When Lemons Give You Life

I bury my face in my hands and groan. “Gosh, who even knows? Obviously my least sexy pair of underpants!”

“Well,” he says, dramatically stroking his chin, “I dunno about that. I reckon beige is a pretty underestimated color when it comes to sexy.” He glances in the direction of the crumpled plastic.

I laugh again. “So, are you a clean freak? Griff is . . . or was.”

“Well, I reckon I’m in between. I’m not at garbage bag in the oven level, but I’m also not the kind to have a nervous breakdown if there’s an empty glass or two on the bedside table.”

“Or five?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Five?!”

I nod sheepishly.

“You don’t have to hide any of yourself, Lisa. I’m here for the whole show, not just the polished parts.” He nudges his glasses further up his nose, his eyes meeting mine.

“The whole show, hey?” It’s my turn to raise my eyebrows, and his to blush. I think of the bedroom carpeted with clothes; I’m not quite ready to go that far in any sense right now. “So, you . . . don’t think I’m weird or . . . disgusting?”

He hesitates then reaches over the table to take my hand, sending electricity down my arm. “You are the furthest thing from disgusting I’ve ever seen. You are so thoughtful. If anyone is disgusting, it’s me. Not many women want to go out with a seven-foot loner.”

“Frank,” I say, lifting his chin gently with my finger, “you are lovely, every inch of you.”

A deep shade of maroon creeps its way up his neck.

“You’ve been so kind,” I tell him. “If it’s okay, I’d sort of like to take things slow. It’s been a while for me.”

He sighs. “I’m relieved you’ve said that. To be honest, it’s been years since I’ve been in a relationship too. Many women don’t give me a second glance when they see how tall I am. Most can’t even look at my eyes, so they don’t bother to look at my heart.”

I place my hand on his. “That’s their loss.”

For a moment we just sit there, the hum of the fridge filling the silence. Then he clears his throat and stands, insisting on doing the dishes. I let him, taking the opportunity to slip away to use the bathroom.

Please let it be beetroot, I plead with the toilet-roll holder, as I flush the pink wee and bad thoughts from my mind.

When I return to the kitchen, Frank is singing “My Way.” His voice doesn’t have Sinatra’s polish, but there’s something raw and radiant in it that holds my attention.

I start to whistle along, and his face brightens. He watches me for a moment.

“What?” I ask, suddenly aware of the space between us.

“You’re the first person I’ve met who whistles like they mean it,” he says, a softness in his voice. “This was so nice. I was wondering if you’d want to”—he shifts his weight—“get a drink after work tomorrow, maybe, around seven?”

My heart soars with a foreign sensation: reciprocated feelings. “I’d love to.”

“Great, I’ll text you in the morning.” He hesitates, biting his lip. “Would it . . . would it be okay if I kissed you, Lisa?”

I nod, my heart skipping—a nervous flutter that lifts me slightly out of myself.

He bends down too fast and bumps his forehead against mine. I laugh under my breath, and his mouth curves into a shy smile.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, his nose brushing mine. This time when he kisses me, it’s slower, surer. A little awkward, a little breathless, and completely perfect.

A proper kiss. A reciprocated kiss. A kiss that starts a relationship, not ends one.

31

Griff (age 42)

January 2003