Loris sets a pint down between them, leaving his hands around the base of the glass. Charles slides his arms closer to brush the back of Loris’ fingers.
‘It’s temporary. I’m meant to start an MBA in September.’
‘Meant to?’
‘It’s always been the plan. It’s never been mine, though, so it’s kind of a shitty plan.’
‘What’s yours?’
Loris parts his fingers to lace them with Charles’, his stare so sultry, his lips so inviting, Charles forgets again any plan involving clothes. But a customer approaches, they draw apart, and Charles clutches the glass – unpleasantly cold in comparison.
‘Being miserable was the idea. But it recently occurred to me that it’s an even shittier plan, so I’m weighing up other options.’
‘Robin Hood, I’m telling you. I’d like to see you in a tight green tunic.’
Charles laughs, until the intensity of Loris’ look costs him a breath. He swallows three mouthfuls of beer and appreciates the draught that blows in the room when new drinkers enter the pub.
‘Sorry, it’s been non-stop today. I can’t give you my full attention for now.’
‘It’s alright. I won’t give you any of mine and do some writing.’
‘Not any of yours? Sure.’
Scrunching his nose at Loris’ smirk, Charles moves his bag to the end of the bar, where he sits on an unfamiliar stool and opens his notebook. He won’t come up with new lines and ideas in such distracting conditions, but he has some editing to do, unsatisfied with everything he’s written lately.
Patty sticks her head out of the back area only to disappear again,evidently convinced that her gem employee is capable of handling the rush.
Charles would love to explain his connection with Patty to Loris now that Fred’s story doesn’t sound like a myth anymore. But he can foresee the emotional impact of a confession. He can’t do that in the pub, where there are many witnesses. Where he can’t even kiss Loris, which is, really, the only concrete thing on his mind. And whether or not Loris is aware of it, he doesn’t allow Charles’ focus to veer away from his dexterous hands and perfectly shaped torso.
In reality, Loris isn’t doing anything but his job. Charles is the one to blame for his internal blaze, and he drinks too much, too fast, in hope it will calm him down.
Twenty-five minutes later, Charles has improved a grand total of two sentences and counted twelve occurrences when it felt like Loris was picturing him naked.
‘What’s your novel about?’
Loris plants himself beside him, carrying a heavy tray of empty glasses on his forearm. Dying to taste the bulging vein on his neck, Charles drops his pen, giving up on being productive today.
‘I wouldn’t say it’s a novel.’
‘That’s what you called it on Saturday.’
‘Right, I said some stuff then… It’s a story about breaking free. It’s inspired by personal experiences, but I’d like to set up my narrator in a different environment, because escapism is the goal. But I’m still struggling to detach myself. It’s a process, I’ll get there.’
‘I’m sure you will.’
As he steps around Charles to go back behind the counter, Loris traces a line above his collar with his forefinger. Simmering, Charlesmakes a note never to come and see him at work again.
‘So, about your visit on Saturday night…’
Charles cracks a smile and rubs his neck, where the skin Loris has touched is scorched.
The pub has gone quiet, they can have the sober conversation Loris is waiting for. In Charles’ earlier scenarios, it was the point when the plot became nightmarish, so he suddenly feels less comfortable on the stool – even if Loris’ current attitude is a cast-iron guarantee that he won’t grow sadistic.
‘I’ve been thinking—’
‘I was wondering—’
‘—that you…’
