He stared into the space that filled the space before him, seeing nothing. The world around him lacked definition; he stared into the blur of its edges, unconcerned. His life lately was wrapped in muffling fog, resulting in a nebulous unobservant calm. At some level, he knew he was missing the details, but he allowed this troubling knowledge to fade into the concealing mists. He went about his life; he worked, he ate, he slept, he fucked. Attention was not required. He was astounded at how little attention was required. The actual fact of his absence from the passage of his life’s individual moments was not a truth he was inclined to examine. He was not inclined to examine much of anything. He rested in the nothingness, comfortable in the fog.
He ran an absent-minded index finger along the length of his spoon, his fingertip coming to rest in the hollow. He was aware of the single cool drop of coffee that met his touch . . . a small round dampness. Abruptly, there was a focusing, a drawing of his attention and his sight.
She sat down and spoke definitely, “This thing between us is not going to work.”
He took just a second to center himself in this new sharp reality, and then he raised his eyebrows and took a sip of his coffee, “No?”
“No.”
He stared at her for a moment, set his coffee cup down, “Well, that is disappointing.”
She brushed her shoulder-length hair back from her face, tucked it behind her ear with a slender finger, “I know. I’m disappointed as well.”
He shook his head slightly, “Do I know you?”
“No, but I know you. I see you.”
He sat back, raked a hand through his hair, thought for a moment, “What exactly do you think you see?”
“I don’t think I see anything. I see.”
“And what do you see?”
She reached with a finger, marking a small jump across the table with each word, “I . . . see . . . you.”
He stared at her finger, which now rested lightly on the back of his hand, “Any chance you have additional insistent words that require the punctuation of your fingers?”
She laughed loudly and rested her hand on his, “Yes! That. I see you.”
“What?”
“That sense of forward momentum. That movement that hides your fear.”
His breath caught at her words, and he moved to cover his reaction. He turned his hand beneath hers and wrapped her fingers within his, “Where is there to move but forward?”
She laughed again and withdrew her hand, “You are exactly the man I see.”
He rested an elbow on the table and tipped his hand toward her, his open palm cupping the air just below her face, “Just a small movement required to close this distance.”
She folded her hands on the table in front of her, raised her chin, “Yes, your reach can close this small distance for a moment, but only for a moment. The distance between us after that moment will stretch forever.”
He hesitated, his hand holding the air that held her, but then he let his hand fall, “What is this game, exactly?”
She reached for his cup of coffee and took a small sip, “Game suggests we are both playing.”
“Aren’t we?”
She slid the coffee cup back across the table, turning it so that the handle lined up with his fingers, “Perhaps.”
He wrapped his hand around the cup, a small claiming, “Tell me the rules.”
“Rules?”
“Every game has rules. This is your game and you want me to play it. I need to know the rules.”
She considered, “First rule? Focus. I am a woman of details. You need to see me.”
He waited.
She drew her lower lip into her mouth, below her top teeth . . . released it slowly . . . stared at him for a moment and then whispered, “Second rule? Don’t move. You need to learn to be still.”
He stared at her and felt something like hope surge within him, “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Do you see me?”
He considered her . . . an attractive woman . . . perhaps thirty years old, perhaps a bit older. Details. She told him to focus on details. Her eyes . . . her eyes were the color of sand in the moment after the wave has retreated from its surface. Intelligence and humor and impatience flashed within them, and he thought perhaps he also saw hopefulness. Her wavy brown hair was in need of a trim, and it slipped in unruly fashion from where she had tucked it behind her ear. Her skin was smooth and pale, a slight flush accenting her cheekbones. A thin scar ran along her hairline above her right eye, an old injury, and one she took no effort to conceal. There was a tiny hole above her upper lip where a jewel might be placed. Her lips . . . she smiled at his concentration and interest. Her fingers were slim and warm; he remembered now the electricity of her touch against his hand.
She had said she was a woman of details, and now he was lost in them.
Lost in the seeing of her.
He saw a woman who had been hurt. A woman who feared. A woman who did not risk often, but who was risking in this moment. A woman who saw something in him he was afraid to acknowledge. A woman who saw what he might be. A woman who saw that he was hiding and who also saw what frightened him. A woman who saw what he had let slip away. A woman who had the power to tighten his grasp on the moments of his life. A woman who . . .
Was he crying? What on earth was wrong with him?
She interrupted, her voice gentle, “Can you be still?”
His voice was tentative, “Still?”
“Yes . . . still.”
He fought to regain control, to be more the man he had grown accustomed to being. He breathed deeply and spoke with more assurance than he felt, “If you are coming to me, I will do whatever you ask.”
His tone caught her, ripped her from the moment. She shook her head, “No. I was right. This is not going to work.”
He sat back, spoke confidently even as he crumbled within, “Oh, but I think it is already working. I think you want me to follow your rules. I think you want this.”
She spoke with more certainty now, her palms against the tabletop as she pressed and then stood, “A mistake.”
He drew back in confusion, “What?”
“This has been a mistake.”
His eyes burned, “I’m sorry.”
“I am as well.”
They stared at one another.
She started to leave. She widened the distance between them with two small steps, but then turned back and leaned into him. She brought her face to his. He felt her exhalations against his cheek, tasted the honeyed notes of her breath mingled with the bitter of the small sip of his coffee she had stolen.
Only her breath between them, as his was held.
She smiled sadly, “You saw me clearly and then you turned back to the fog. You chose.”
She brought a finger to his lips, “Shhhhh.”
He saw in her eyes that this was the end of the conversation, the end of the game, unless he had a move to make.
He spoke softly against her fingertip, “I chose badly. I was afraid. I want to see you.”
She stared at him.
He whispered, “I want to be still. I want that more than anything.”
She traced a line from his lips to his chin and then dropped away, her face very close to his, “You are not a man comfortable with still. I see you. Could you be still for me?”
He felt the urgent quickened beat of his heart, the tightening in his throat. He took a long slow breath, “Still on the outside, racing within. Will that do?”
She laughed, a low intimate laugh of complicity, “A test, then.”
She took his hands and pulled him to standing.
Brought his hands to his sides and then released her grip, “Still.”
She ran her fingers along the backs of his hands, traced the lines and contours of his wrists. Her fingers danced along the length of his arms, a light caress of skin to skin. Her hands rested now on his shoulders.
He did not move.
She stood on tiptoe and leaned into him but not against him, her hands still resting on his shoulders.
Her face close to his.
Closer.
Still.
He closed his eyes, and she filled his vision.
He felt the brush of her lips against his.
Barely there.
She darted her tongue between his lips. Her hands reached around, exploring the back of his neck, reaching up into his hair. Not pulling him close, but holding him nonetheless. His breath was ragged now.
Still.
She traced the outline of his lips with a delicate flickering touch, her tongue marking a path around his silence.
Still.
He opened his eyes now, looked into hers . . . watched as tears traced a path down her face as delicately as her fingers had traced up his arms. She held his gaze. With a single fingernail, she lightly scratched a path . . . from the back of his neck to the front and then down . . . found a hollow resting place to hold her touch.
Still.
She explored the small soft retreat of his skin. She brought her hand to her own face then, followed the damp path of her tears . . . down one side of her face and then the other. He stood motionless as she brought her dampened finger back to the hollow of his neck. He felt the cool moisture on his skin.
Still.
She leaned in to dart her tongue against that hollow, to taste the combination of his skin and her sadness. She ran her hands back down his arms, sable brushstrokes along his skin. She held his hands in hers. Released him. Stepped back.
He did not move.
Still.
She stared at him.
She brushed her hair back from her face, tucked it behind her ear.
She made no attempt to wipe her tears, and they continued to flow.
She took a deep uneven breath, “This may work after all.”
He said nothing.
He watched as she walked away.
He stood there unmoving.
Still.
His vision blurred.
Again.
