Page 7 of Azyr: Drifiting for Her

At least he was honest. “Is that a Veyathi thing or a you thing?”

“Both. Your ceiling has forty-one water stains. You have counted them because two are circled in pencil. You circled them at night based on the angle and how the light filters from the lamp and the streetlights outside.”

The office became very quiet.

I set the pen flat on the desk. “You’re supposed to be patient as I go through the agenda subjects, not asking me about my office.”

“You asked what I noticed.”

“I didn't expect you to answer with observations of my ceiling.”

“You are the most interesting thing in the room.” It came out in a flat tone, the same as he used to discuss any other subject. “So I have been reading you instead of the agenda. I apologize if it is rude by human customs. I have not been on a planet with other people in some time.”

Twelve years of being the one who sees others, but never gets seen, and now, here was a hunky alien man reading my insomnia off the ceiling like a chart. Was this his idea of flirting?

“Let’s try Earth customs.” I retreated to the agenda like it would save me. “Greetings. Humans shake hands. Firm, brief, two pumps, and then release. Do not hold on. This applies to the area you’re in, but other countries may not have the same custom. It’s considered formal and is falling out of favor.”

“Why would I hold on?”

“People do. Sometimes it's nerves… Also, small talk. You will be asked how you are. The correct answer is ‘fine, thanks, you?’ It is not a real question. You do not tell them about your observations.”

“That seems dishonest.”

“It’s social lubricant. The whole species runs on it.” I put my hand out across the desk to demonstrate. “Hi. How are you?”

He took my hand. Firm, brief, and then he released it, exactly as instructed. “I have not slept properly since I arrived. The room above your office carries every sound. I may need a quieter room.”

I didn't breathe for a second. “The answer is ‘fine, thanks.’”

“I know.” His mouth tipped. “You did ask.”

So he had jokes. Buried a mile down under all that stillness, aimed directly at me. Perfect. That was the one thing that could make this worse, and of course, he managed it.

Priya knocked once and put her head in without waiting, which is her version of knocking. “Sorry to interrupt. The, ah, file.” She held up a folder that was, from where I sat, visibly empty.

“I’m in a session, Priya.”

“I can see that.” She looked at Azyr. Azyr looked back, and went, helpfully, a polite social blue. Priya’s eyebrows relocated to her hairline. “Take your time.” Delighted, she withdrew, and I heard her walk about four feet down the hall and stop, because the walls in this building were thin and she is a professional eavesdropper.

“Your colleague,” Azyr observed, “is reading me the way I read you.”

“My colleague is going to Eugene.”

“Eugene closed.”

“I’ll reopen it.” I tapped the agenda hard enough to leave a mark. “On-world logistics. Focus.”

He focused. Sort of. “On-world logistics,” he repeated back to me, grave as a judge, “is not the thing either of us is currently thinking about.”

I got us back on script. Or he let me think I did. I could read his emotions through his skin tones; his mind and intentions were another matter. We did the disclosure packet. We did off-world logistics. He answered every question I actually asked in flat exact sentences and asked three more that had nothing to do with logistics, and every time I dodged one he took the information the same way as he took an answer. I got the unhelpful certainty he’d have the whole of me catalogued by Friday.

Then, around noon, the translator betrayed him. What the box put out, in its mild little contralto, cheerful and clear, was:

“You have built something warm here, and I would like very much to get inside it.”

We both went completely still.

“That.” He went a shade paler at the collarbone. “Is not what I said.”