Page 25 of Five Things I See in You

“Come in, don’t just stand there,” I say, stepping aside to let her in.

It amuses me because she doesn’t seem to know where to put her hands. She sticks them in her pockets, takes them out again, rubs them on her pants. Then she goes over to my plants, touches the leaves of some of them with her fingertips, and stops in front of the tallest one.

“And this one?”

“That one’s gone three years without a single flower. I don’t know what to do with it; I’ve tried everything,” I say.

She moves on to the bookcase, again sliding her fingertips along the spines of the books.

“Everything’s too organized,” she murmurs. “Is it a system or a sickness?”

“A little of both, I guess,” I admit. “Do you want something to drink? I have tea or whiskey. Nothing in between. Well, tap water.”

“Whiskey. After the week I’ve had, it won’t hurt. With one ice cube, please.”

The kitchen is small, just big enough for one person, and when I lift my arm to grab the bottle from the shelf my sleeve rides up, exposing my forearm. Noa looks at it, but she doesn’t ask anything right then. She stays sitting on the counter for a while, swirling the ice in her whiskey glass, ankles crossed, until curiosity gets the better of her.

“What does it say?” she finally asks, pointing at the tattoo with her chin.

I show her my whole forearm. A short phrase: “Never give up.”

“I got it when I was eighteen,” I explain before she can ask. “Before I left for college. I have a complicated history with my mother; I’ll tell you the whole story someday. It’s the only one I have, in case you were wondering.”

To my surprise, she hops down from the counter and holds me by the wrist. Then she pulls my arm up and kisses the letters of the tattoo. When she lifts her head and looks at me, my heart speeds up.

“It’s getting late and we haven’t started making dinner.”

“We can order in. You told me to bring an appetite, but you didn’t say it had to be for food,” she jokes, winking at me.

Now my pulse really does speed up. I wasn’t expecting her to be so direct, or maybe it’s just that I’ve gone so long without a relationship that I don’t know what to expect anymore. So I set my whiskey glass down on the counter, next to hers, and both of them stay there all night, forgotten.

***

In the bedroom, I clumsily take off my glasses before kissing her and one of the arms gets caught on my ear. Noa laughs against my lips and gently caresses my cheekbones.

“Are you nervous or are you always like this?” she teases.

“I think both,” I admit. “Maybe you should know it’s been quite a while since I’ve been in a relationship, I think I already told you, and…”

“We’ll go at whatever pace you need,” she whispers, brushing my neck with the tip of her nose.

“Are you okay?” I ask her. “Are you cold? Do you want me to turn off the light?”

Noa covers my mouth with her hand.

“In the car, after my panic attack, you told me it was your turn to listen. Today it’s your turn to be taken care of.”

My hands hover between us. I lower them, then raise them again. Noa takes them and places them on her waist.

“Relax, okay?” she whispers. “Or don’t. Whatever you prefer. And for the record: I’m fine, I’m not cold, and the light stays on,” she adds.

She pulls out my hair tie with a clumsy tug that makes me laugh, then runs her fingers through my hair until it falls over my shoulders.

“I’ve spent weeks wanting to see you like this,” she murmurs.

She takes her time removing my blouse, then my bra, and I do the same with her clothes. Then she unbuttons my pants and her hands, always cold, slip under the fabric.

Without my glasses, the world ends a foot from my face. But today she’s right there: her eyelashes, her mouth, her collarbone, her breasts brushing mine. The light is still on and I’m glad I didn’t turn it off, because she’s beautiful.