“How old are you?” she asked, thinking he looked a little old to only now be thinking about starting a family.
“Thirty-two.”
“Oh.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I look older?”
“Not really. Without the beard, you look about twelve, but before…not so much old as impossible to tell. And then there’re those bruises, the…” She let the words trail off as she indicated his scar. Some people didn’t want their scars pointed out to them—herself included.
His smile said he wasn’t easily offended. At least, not about his looks. “One of the perks of my job, I guess.” He indicated the anvil behind him. It did seem pretty dangerous—literally playing with fire. “There’s also the fightin’.”
“Yeah. So I saw. Do you get hurt a lot?”
Uma remembered his limbs entwined with his opponent’s, the sound of a hard tussle, and thatsmell.
Oh man. If she ever got ahold of a camera again, that would be her first stop—back to the gym to capture it all. There was nothing like the challenge of communicating those indescribable elements through a photo: the sounds, the smells, the adrenaline, and, above all, this man, the way nature surely meant for him to be. Uma wanted that so badly, she could feel the camera’s absence prickle her hand like a phantom limb.
Fuck Joey. Just fuck him. For destroying my equipment, for taking my soul away from me.
“Yeah. Keeps me outta trouble.”
“So, you make a living doing this?”
“Yep.”
Feeling fidgety, she stood and crossed to the long wall that held the enormous set of gates she’d admired before, intricate and beautiful and masculine. “You’re an artist.”
“Nah. I just pound metal.”
Her fingers lit on a piece of the gate, following it from the top to halfway down. It ran smooth and shiny black, graceful and strong, coming together with the other pieces in waves, without any of the scrolling curlicues you might associate with the medium.
“This is amazing.”
“It’s for out front.”
“Here?”
He nodded, and she could see those gates framing the end of the driveway, facing the street, keeping out intruders. A strong statement.
She took a turn around the room, admiring other bits of ironwork and random things that had nothing to do with metal. An African-looking wooden statue of a pregnant woman, her large breasts brazenly nude and not remotely sexual. A pair of mercury glass hurricane lamps, the melted candles inside saying they’d seen lots of use. A dog bed in the corner, with a big black cat snoozing comfortably. Funny that the animal had gone completely unnoticed. She squatted and ran a hand over its sleek fur. No response—just the slow, steady breathing of deep, unworried sleep.
Wouldn’t that be nice?
“Is this cat alive?” When she looked up, Ivan’s eyes were on her, warm and familiar.
“Gertie? Yeah. Doesn’t move much.”
“Is she old?”
He shrugged. “Had the vet out here to check on my animals. Said she’s geriatric.”
“I saw all the food bowls. How many animals do you have?”
“Well, got Squeak. And a few cats. There’s a wild pony—call him Marley, ’cause of the dreads. The chickens…they’re just the girls. Rooster, skunk, you know… Whoever shows up lookin’ for chow.”
“That’s quite a menagerie.”
“Somebody’s gotta feed ’em.”
