“I would have brought you a cookie too, but they turned out a little too soggy to serve.” He grinned as he sat the simple mug down on the glass table in front of me.
“I’ll survive,” I said, still trying to rearrange my legs in a way that would be both comfortable and not altogether too exposing. “Thank you.”
I inhaled the tea and allowed myself to enjoy the feeling of my legs resting. After the train ride and the long walk, I felt comfortably tired, just woozy enough to shake the veneer I trained onto my face and into my voice for business conversations. Instead, I breathed in the smell of the place and took careful sips of tea while he watched me, sitting on his ottoman with a cool ease that made me not only jealous but also incapable of not watching him in return.
“So you think I like broken things?” I asked after a long time, voice warm and tinged in this quiet, restful moment. Paul Archer looked at me over the rim of his cup, which he held in both hands as though it was an Asian bowl.
“I think you understand them, notice them,” he corrected, then tilted his head, put the cup down and pulled his glasses from his face. It made him look strangely characterless while he wiped the hot water condensation from the lenses before resetting the glasses on his nose in that charming gesture. “And maybe, you feel drawn to them, too.”
There was something in his eyes, a shadow maybe or a sense of foreboding, and I looked away. I realized too late that my heart was thrumming in my chest with the speed of a runaway train. I cleared my throat and looked at the table. My eyes focused on a small collection of shark teeth, small and gray around a single huge one: a tooth that might lodge itself in a limb with the strength of an industrial claw. He seemed to understand my need for retreat; and didn’t speak again for a long time. I, in turn, didn’t look at him until I could control my senses. And maybe that was just what he wanted, to let me feel safe just for a few minutes.
“Can I call you Iris?” he asked out of the blue and my eyes were dragged back up to his face. He was smiling—possibly with an apology edged into his features.
For as long as it took me to inhale far too much air for a simple answer, I wondered what would happen if I said no. I could have fetched my tape recorder and my notebook and we could have done this interview. There was still time, and afterwards I’d have called a late taxi to that B&B and in the morning, I would have taken the first train home.
But I didn’t say no. I nodded.
“Iris,” he repeated and the old-fashioned name I hardly ever had any true emotional bond with, suddenly sounded warm and colorful.
“I did not ask you here because I wanted to sleep with you, but I do now.”
I had time to appreciate the cliché of my reaction when my jaw dropped. His words traveled through my entire body at the speed of lightning, leaving it sore and tingling, fearing and longing for the fire to come back. I couldn’t take credit for not stuttering something in return though. He didn’t give me much time to collect myself before he pulled his glasses off again in a deprecating gesture and continued. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shock you. I just believe it’s best to be honest about these things. I know that puts you in a difficult position but I wouldn’t have said anything if I didn’t think there might be a possibility you’d feel the same.”
A pause. I still didn’t know what to say.
“I am not an asshole, Iris and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I don’t want you to wonder what will happen to your career if you tell me off. I won’t hold it against you, Iris, not in any way. You don’t even have to say no, if you’re too nice or polite or... British.”
I can’t claim much memory of these moments past his words and his eyes that were gentle and kind and yet, at the same time, seemed to bore themselves deeply into my head, stirring secret centers of pleasure where I’d never even thought to look for any. Warm shivers ran down my spine and it was as though every hair follicle was turning into a raw nerve that tingled in the open air.
“I will excuse myself into the kitchen,” he went on, still smiling a non-threatening smile. “And if, when I come back, you are sitting here with a notepad or a laptop, I will give you an interview that your editor won’t find any less than deeply insightful.” He gave me a crooked grin at that, before his face grew surprisingly earnest again. “But if you sit here, like you are, with your palms on the table, then we will go on with our evening as two people who just met and want to know more about one another without an audience in mind.” He paused and raised his eyebrows.