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“Just like that?”
“Just like that,” he agreed.
I was bemused to realise I felt angry. How could he get over his jealousy so easily?
He turned in his seat and picked up his reports, lining them up and tapping them into order on the table.
“Dinner?” he asked.
“OK,” I said slowly.
He smiled, stood up, and walked out of the room.
I shook my head and went back to my report; fingering the cross again at my neck out of habit.
A moody Michael was new to me.
But then, all of this was new to me; feeling like it mattered.
Feeling like everything Michael did mattered to me.
I huffed out a breath of air and tried to read the report.
I sucked at it. But I was a champion at thinking of Michael.
* * *
We sat down at the table and accepted the menus from the waiter. He poured water from a jug into two tall glasses before us and proceeded to tell us the specials. I liked the sound of the smoked fish pie. Michael chose the sirloin and picked a bottle of wine.
I sipped the water and stared out at Mission Bay. Cars slowly moved by, outpaced by pedestrians. The sea looked blue between the pohutukawa trees. The sand looked white in theearly evening sunlight.
My eyes came back to Michael, sitting across from me. As if he’d called me to him and I was unable to resist the pull.
He was watching me, not the scenery. As if I was prettier than a summer’s evening in Auckland City.
“What did you get up to this afternoon?” I asked. He’d been gone from the office since four. It wasn’t like him to leave before close of business. Michael was one of the most dedicated workers I’d ever met. His absence had worried me.
“A bit of this and a bit of that,” he said, noncommittally.
“Oh,” I mumbled and looked out of the window again.
Michael reached over and took hold of my hand. My gaze swung back again, against my better judgement.
“What did you think I got up to?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t know.”
He stared at me. I stared back.
“OK,” he whispered, and I got the feeling he didn’t believe me.
The waiter came and offered a taste of the wine in Michael’s glass. Michael sipped it and nodded his head, but his eyes never left me. The waiter poured the wine without passing comment. Neither of us said a thing while he did it.
As soon as he left, I pulled my hand out of Michael’s and took a large gulp of my drink.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“It’s nice,” I said.
