Deep in thought, I’m watching Shawn roll up his sleeves, not bothering with the big rubber gloves. He easily lifts the large ceramic mixing bowl that’s been soaking, and I can’t help but watch the lean lines of his wrists, the tension in his forearms as he works dried batter off the bowl’s rim with a sponge.
But I still want him to leave.
It dawns on me after a few minutes, that I’m really just staring at his arms. He’s always had amazing arms. I mean, I’m sure there’s always been some definition there, but it toes a linebetween a sort of natural muscley-ness and a guy who actually works out. I kind of wonder then, if he could pick me up. Not just in a theoretical, how-much-can-you-lift? way, but my body craving the feeling of being picked up and tossed over a shoulder in a sort of caveman way.
It’s then I realize that I’m horny for Shawn. Horrifyingly horny about the idea of him picking me up and roughly handling me.
That can’t happen.
I turn away abruptly and start getting more ingredients for lunch down from the shelf, some spice jars and condiments. “You should go. You’re just going to mess my system up.”
“Your system hasn’t changed in years, I can tell by the way you have everything lined up.”
My hand grasps a bottle of hot sauce briefly, picking it up by the lid. I have half a thought, that whoever used this last must not have screwed it on right, before suddenly it’s too light, and I’m just gripping the lid.
I yelp in surprise when the bottle makes its loud impact on the counter, and the last thing I see before squeezing my eyes shut reflexively, is the sauce splattering out of the bottle.
Deceptive, refrigerator-cold drops of it make contact with my face and I freeze.
“Oh my god, are you kidding me,” I squeak, and start to go to wipe the sauce from my face, but discover my hands are already wet with it, and I don’t know where the closest dish towel is.
“Wow, that got all over you,” I hear him from behind me, across the room.
“Eyes, Shawn. It’s on my eyes,” I tell him, and a second later there’s the sound of the sink running. I guess he’s rinsing the soap suds off his hands. I can hear him moving around the room. I can’t really pay attention to it at the moment, I’m more concerned with if the hot sauce is going to make contact with my eyeballs or not.
My heart is thudding in my chest. I hate getting hot sauce in little cuts on my fingers, I can’t imagine how bad it’ll burn my eyes. What do I even do if that happens? Would pouring milk in them be the answer? That sounds crazy.
“Did it get in your eyes?” I hear him ask, and this time he’s right in front of me, guiding me with light touches to turn away from the counter.
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think I can open them,” I say in whatever direction, until I feel the counter against my back. I brace my hands against it as he touches just underneath my jaw, coaxing me to raise my chin so he can get a better look.
“Hold still, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, and I feel the cold touch of a wet paper towel on my face. “We’re just going to be very careful about this.”
I hold my breath and try not to move at all, as his fingers press through the towel and clear the majority of the hot sauce from my face.
With my eyes welded shut like this, the world is reduced to just his hands, fingertips carefully tracing over my face, the sound of his breath and the little warmth that ghosts from it over my skin. My heart is pounding, but decidedly less so from the fear of my eyes stinging.
The heel of his palm presses to my cheekbone, steadying his hand as he touches the wet paper towel to my eyelids, wiping a drip of hot sauce from my eyelashes.
“There,” he says at last. “You should be in the clear.”
His palm stays nestled against my cheek when I open my eyes.
I wasn’t ready for how close he was standing. I used to know this closeness, all the little details in his face.
He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I, fearing if we did it would break whatever fragile spell has fallen over us. His hands are warm and big, and I remember every bit about them.
There’s almost a gravity present, like standing on the edge of a massive cliff. The edge terrifies you and you don’t want to go anywhere near it, but you can’t help but be drawn to it, you can’t stop peering further and further over the edge, a gentle type of hell.
It’s clear Shawn doesn’t know how to navigate the lack of physicality between us either. Not touching seems stranger than anything else.
My cheek is pressed hard in his hand, tilting my face up towards his. My eyes flick from his long eyelashes to the hard line of his mouth. I wonder if his lips are just as soft as they were eight years ago. I wonder who he’s kissed since we divorced.
He barely blinks, both of us too frightened and suddenly inexperienced in these matters with each other.
The soft, fragile moment slowly fills with horror, as I have absolutely no idea what to do, afraid that it will never end or that it will end awkwardly and terribly.
For a moment, I think he’s going to say something I need to hear, like an apology, something heartfelt, some vital key to my closure with how things ended.
