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I gather my breath. If I’m honest, I know I’m the only one that he will let wait on him and for some reason it makes it harder to go out there.
My feet feel like they are encased in lead as I force them to lift and propel me forward. Heat is already radiating from my cheeks as I walk out of the back room and to the framing counter where he’s standing, hands down in his pants pockets, chest as broad as a billboard. He’s like a wall. His black t-shirt is stretched across his shoulders, like XXXL is still a bit too small, tapering down to a narrow waist where it’s tucked perfectly into pressed, gun-metal-gray dress pants.
Whenever he comes in, whatever he’s wearing, it looks like he just stepped out of the dry cleaner. Even his t-shirts are pressed and perfect. His onyx-colored hair looks freshly cut as well. Every time. He’s got this GQ caveman vibe and I have to be honest, I’ve never had this kind of reaction to a man or a boy in my life. Must be some powerful pheromones he gives off.
Either that, or I’m having a stroke.
I’ve probably helped him frame at least a hundred wine posters already, but he just keeps bringing in more. He never asks the price, just tells me to pick out what I like and slips his black Amex into my hand.
Oh and there’s the wine. He gives me two or three expensive bottles of wine every time he comes in. I don’t have the heart to tell him I don’t drink. He’s clearly a wine connoisseur and I’ve never taken a sip of alcohol. Nor do I plan to. Been there, seen that, want no part of it in any way.
Besides, I’m pretty sure he’s like some big deal. He owns this wine distributorship, but from what Andrea says, he used to own or be part of some big demolition company. Whenever she tries to tell me something about him I hush her and walk away. I don’t know why, but I don’t want to know.
But, from the bit she’s managed to sneak through my defenses, apparently there is a lot of money in blowing things up. So, he’s him and I’m... well, I’m me.
I’m homeless. And chubby. And dyslexic.
And homeless.
Did I mention homeless?
I’m surprised the ‘L’ on my forehead isn’t visible from Mars.
I wish I could enjoy the wine he brings me. Sometimes I consider downing a bottle to lose myself for a while. But I won’t do it.
My Dad drank. He had good reason, I guess. I don’t remember a lot, but I remember enough. Mom said things were good with all of us in the early years. Then there was an accident at the steel mill where he worked. A furnace he was working on exploded and killed one of his co-workers. Mom said he never got over the guilt. She said he was never the same after that. She told me to marry someone kind, someone without a damaged past. It hurt her as much as it did Dad.
He disappeared one night when I was seven, but I still remember when he was drunk. The sweet and sour smell on his breath when he would lean down and yell right in my face for not picking up my room or not finishing my dinner. That was enough for me. I’m sure wine can be delicious, but I’m not going to find out.
Magnus has spent more here in a couple months than I make in a year.
“Hi.” I gulp down my nerves as I come up behind the counter. Those Starbucks eyes following me like a painting in a haunted house. “Haven’t you filled all those walls yet?” The inferno generating inside me makes trickles of sweat traverse slowly down the indent of my spine, only to be lovingly absorbed by the too-tight waistband of my skirt.
It took me a good year working here to be comfortable waiting on customers. But that seems to be a hat I can put on, as though I’m acting a part. I have to take my time taking names and information, but I have a system that helps hide the fact that I’m writing as slow as a second grader. And, I’ve got Andrea. She double checks everything for me as well.
“Hi Cassie.” His voice turns my girl parts to molten lava.
From the first day he came in here, he and I seem to have had things to talk about, despite my antisocial streak. You would think with his imposing presence and form it would be the opposite, but I feel comfortable, like I can talk to him about anything. It’s very strange for me.
I’m uncomfortable in general because it’s conversation and socializing, and still somehow it’s at least tolerable with him because he doesn’t seem to expect anything. He asks me things about myself. And I answer. Truthfully, most of the time.
And then sometimes I ask him things. And when I do he answers. It’s going on three months now, and we’ve managed to find out quite a bit about each other. I love listening to him. He seems so disciplined, so controlled and sure. There’s this twinkle behind those dark chocolate eyes that feels soft.
Talking to him is like listening to someone read a classic book. The words roll out of him with such ease yet each one is chosen perfectly. There is no filler. No posturing. He’s sincere and honest and I can feel things while around him. Nice things. Comforting things.
I have a feeling there is a lot more going on inside that calm, controlled demeanor. But I don’t delve too deep.
Because after all, he’s him and I’m me.
I do my job as I try to keep from drooling and jumping across the counter and doing the things I read about in my books.
Oh and what about his name?
Magnus.
His name is seriously Magnus.
It couldn’t be more fitting. I have to crane my neck to look up into his face when he’s standing; falling upward into those stout-brown eyes, dark and clear.
