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I wipe my forehead as I scrub one of my two T-shirts on one of the washboards Tristan made two weeks ago. Next to me, Tristan's doing the same with his shirt. We're sitting on one of the massive, fallen tree trunks we use as a bench, each with a washboard between our legs. We’ve been here a little over a month, and I swear washing clothes is one of the best workouts there is. I glance at my pile of clothing—underwear, two dresses, one pair of jeans and one T-shirt—waiting for me to wash them and curse. I've started wearing some of my dresses, impractical as they may be, because the thin fabric works well in this humid heat. Now I’m wearing a long, red dress with short, wavy sleeves. There’s still one dress, aside from my wedding dress, that I didn't touch. The white chiffon dress with navy lace. It's just too long and impractical to wear. It's at the bottom of my suitcase along with other useless things such as my makeup bag.
Tristan pours a few drops of shower gel over my board and then over his. It's not enough to clean the clothes, but it makes them smell better. That's as high as we can hope given our circumstances, and we're very careful to waste as little shower gel as possible.
"What's your favorite color?" Tristan asks. At last he's enjoying our little questioning game and initiates it almost as often as I do.
"White."
"That's a non-color," Tristan says with a smile, tsk-tsking.
"Well, it's the one I like most," I say defensively.
"That's why you have so much white clothing?"
"Yeah," I say, surprised he noticed that. I wore white a lot in L.A.
He nods, as if considering something. "You look good in white."
I blush slightly. One of the wavy short sleeves of the dress I’m wearing falls off my shoulder. I raise my hand to put it back in place as Tristan does the same. Our hands meet mid-way, and when our fingers touch, electricity zips through us. It’s so intense, I feel a burning sensation in my fingers even after we break contact. The warmth spreads from my fingers, rising to my cheeks, and I blush, confused, even more so when I realize Tristan is avoiding my gaze.
"You look good in everything you wear,” he says, “Aimee."
I flinch a bit at the sound of my name. I usually do when he says it. And he says it often, ever since I asked him to. I can’t pinpoint how or why, but i
t sounds different now.
After a few minutes I ask, "What's your favorite meal?"
He doesn't miss a beat. "Omelette."
I snicker. "That doesn't qualify as a meal," I say, seizing the chance to get back at him for mocking my favorite color. "No one dreams about an omelette. That's a last resort food anyone can cook. Pick something else."
"Well, that's what I like. I love an omelette for breakfast. It's a privilege to be able to eat one while sitting in a comfortable chair, reading the newspaper."
That's a bit weird, but I let it go. Every day here must be a privilege for him since we eat eggs almost every morning, though boiled, not an omelette. Maybe it's his guilty pleasure. Like coffee is for me.
I would understand much later that the privilege is not about the eggs at all, but something else entirely.
"I don't know about omelettes, but I like my coffee in the morning."
"I know," he says, smiling even wider. "At 7:00 a.m. sharp. With one spoon of sugar."
"You're perceptive," I say. "What else did you notice about me?"
"You like to change your haircut every six months and—”
"Wow. You'd make a perfect boyfriend," I say, stunned. "Most men don't notice things like that."
His expression hardens, and I bite my lip. Stepping into forbidden territory again.
"I meant it as a compliment," I add, though I have the feeling that won't help.
"I just like to observe… the little things," he says, clipping out the words. I mull them over for a few seconds in silence.
"Your hands are almost bleeding, Aimee," he says, alarmed. "I'll wash the rest of your things too."
I look at my hands and notice the skin has peeled off. If I continue rubbing clothes on the washboard, they'll be bloody in no time. My eyes dart to Tristan's hands. They are flushed, but in much better shape than mine.
"Thanks," I say. The tension in his posture ebbs away, and I sigh in relief, glad to be out of the forbidden territory. Why is he so sensitive about his personal life? Maybe he'll open up. A week ago I couldn’t get him to talk at all, and now he's asking almost as many questions as I am. But he changes when I accidentally step into his forbidden territory with my questions. His eyes widen, while something I never associated with him creeps into his dark, vivid eyes: vulnerability. So much vulnerability that I want nothing more than to hug him and find a way to lead him to a place of safety. I can’t stand the torment in his eyes, the tension that suddenly claims him. Tristan grows on me more and more every day, with every kind thing he does to make things bearable for me, and every soothing word he speaks.
