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Half of my brain says this is a bad idea. The other half doesn’t particularly care. When he smiles, I decide to go with the latter half and tell the first half to shut it.
I place my hand in his, and the contact makes my skin sing. I know this is just for some pretend flirting, but human touch is not in high supply when you travel the world all by yourself. Except for on the Paris Metro, but that’s an entirely different experience. If my skin is singing anything there, it’s “Don’t Stand So Close to Me.”
The man flips my hand so that it rests palm-up on top of his. “Let’s see...” His index finger drifts lightly along the center of my palm. “Interesting. Says here that you are very beautiful.”
It’s a cheesy line, but I smile anyway. “How lovely of my hand to say so.”
The man lifts his gaze to mine. “I also think you’re very beautiful, by the way.”
“I’m glad everyone is in agreement, then,” I say, trying to play it cool when, really, I’m melting more than a protein bar that’s worked its way to the bottom of my backpack.
He laughs, then looks at my hand again. “You’ve got a big life-changing adventure coming up. That sounds fun.”
“Or ominous.”
He shakes his head. “It very clearly says the adventure is going to be fun.” He tilts my palm beneath the light of the bare bulb that hangs above us. “You’re a creative soul. An artist of some sort...” He squints at me. “Are you a musician?”
If I thought my heart was racing before, it’s nothing compared to now. “How did you know that?”
“It’s all here in your hand.”
I stare at my hand. “I’m not sure if it’s what you were going for, but I’m a little freaked out.”
“Don’t freak out.” His touch is gentle when it skims across my fingertips. “I’ve tattooed a lot of musicians. The calluses gave you away. You’ve also got a tambourine poking out of your pocket. It jingles every time you move.”
I look down at my pocket where, sure enough, my foot tambourine is in plain view. “You’re a tattoo artist?”
“Sort of.” Before I can ask how someone cansort ofbe a tattoo artist he says, “Shall I continue? Or are we still freaked out?”
“We’re no longer freaked out,” I say, though I amvery muchfreaked out... by the intensity and immediacy of my attraction to this man.
“Good.” He drops his gaze to my palm again. “Now that’s nice. Says here you’re going to meet a stranger. A charming one with blue eyes. A colorful character, one might say.” His expression is playfulwhen he looks up at me. “You could interpret that one in a variety of ways, I suppose.”
I eye his tattoos. “If you say so.”
“Apparently, this charming stranger is about one hundred and eighty centimeters tall, excellent at flirting, and really likes bagels. Not raisin, though. He’s more of a poppyseed bagel kind of fella. He’s also incredibly good-looking. Your hand says he’s the best-looking fella in all of Ireland, but that seems a bit over-the-top, so let’s play it safe and say he’s the best-looking fella in County Cork.”
“He sounds amazing. I hope he gets here soon.”
The man gives me a wounded look, then glances at my palm once more. “Oh, and in the near future, a seagull will eat your lunch.”
I snort out a laugh. “What sort of retaliation is that?”
He straightens on his stool but keeps my hand in his. “Who said anything about retaliation? I just say what I see. Don’t shoot the messenger.”
There’s a beat of silence as we look at each other, and then he lets go of my hand and leans away. “How was that?” he asks.
“Perfect,” I say. “I’ll be sure to give you a great review on Tripadvisor. Ten out of ten.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, but Tripadvisor ratings are only out of five.”
“Ten out of five, then.” Great, I’m talking nonsense now. I grab a napkin from the bar and run my fingers along its edges. I need to keep my hands busy because I am feeling... a lot. Not a lot of different feelings, but a lot of one, something like excitement or elation. Only a few minutes ago I was exhausted. Now I’m practically vibrating with energy. If it were socially acceptable, I’d sprint a lap or two around the room.
“Thanks for cheering me up... Gosh, I don’t even know your name.”
“Jack,” he says.
“Well, thank you, Jack. I owe you a bagel. Poppyseed. Not raisin.”
