She nibbles at her thumb nail, and I steal her hand away so she can’t keep doing it. The skin around her nailbeds is raw; she must take it out on them every time she’s nervous. “And what are we doing for today?”
With my spare hand, I play with her hair, still not used to the change. “I thought I’d cook another meal and we can either eat it or let it congeal on the plate like the last one.”
She burrows into me, still holding onto her cup, now close to empty. I kiss the hand I have in mine, then lock my fingers into hers and wrap our two arms around her waist. Her stomach grumbles and I laugh.
“Okay, sounds like you agree.”
Instead of moving, I stay where I am for another few minutes, enjoying the warmth of her, the tiny movements, letting the peace of holding her safely in my arms suffuse my entire body, my soul.
Then my phone beeps at me in code, breaking the spell.
“Is that your mother checking in on you?”
“I wish. It’s my boss.”
I vaguely recall being issued a new task by Stefan, but it’s lost beneath the buzz of activity from the past few days. I put him off till tomorrow and try to settle back but Em’s finished her cup, and the moment has gone.
“Don’t you like coffee?”
I think of telling her no. Telling her how I don’t like anything at the moment apart from her. That none of the things that brought me pleasure in the past do anything for me, lately. That my entire world is in greyscale except for the one vibrant point of colour that is her.
Then I perform a quick assessment on the creep scale and decide we’ve probably had enough confessions for one day.
Popcorn is the only thing that sounds attractive to Em from my large stash of not-really-food. I do hers first, opening and making sure the packet has cooled enough to handle before I pass it over. She eats halfway through, then a sad expression wafts onto her face and she slows, then stops and puts it aside.
I turn on my phone and broadcast it through the mini sound system, dragging Em to her feet when she tries to resist. “Come on,” I wheedle, attempting to perform some fancy dance moves and catastrophically failing. “You were happy enough to dance at the Senior’s ball.”
“Because the other option was sitting at a table with you,” she snaps, flicking her head back with a laugh.
Despite her protestations, her hands move to rest lightly on my shoulders and I perform a quick spin that mostly works, her body easily following the same movements but a thousand times more graceful.
The music app snaps to the next track, a lot faster. Em giggles and moves away, copying the routine from the video from memory, then looking over to me with an expectant smile on her face while I attempt my version of the same moves.
Once finished, I grab her around the waist and lead her through a modified tango. ‘Modified’ being a code word for all the steps I put wrong. Em nearly collapses with laughter, and I tug her closer, swaying on every second beat and turning the fast song into a slow number.
Her body fits perfectly against mine, our hearts beating in synch. The spark of joy in her eyes sends a thrill through me as though I’m the sole reason it’s there.
I don’t care if that makes me stupid. I wish we could live here, in this moment, with the music pouring from the tinny speakers and her laughter filling the room with warmth.
When Em looks and acts her age instead of a combination of a frightened child lashing out and a woman so old and worn down by life that she can’t remember how to try.
She grabs me, bunching her fists in my loose shirt and pulls me close, pressing her lips against mine, still laughing so the vibration tangos into my mouth, making it buzz, making me feel alive. She drops one fistful of fabric and moves that hand to side, then my hip, then my waistband.
Finally, she has both hands pulling on my belt, tugging me around like I’m a hapless mannequin who somehow wandered onto the wrong dancefloor.
“Careful. You move any lower…”
“Ooh,” her eyes flash. “Threats. Like it wasn’t bad enough that you have me gagged and handcuffed in your retreat in the middle of nowhere—”
“It’s the middle of Sockburn. That’s not very sensitive to all the other folks who live in this suburb.”
“Fine, the middle of Sockburn, now you’re threatening me with bodily… What would you call it? Not harm exactly but…”
“Bodily devotion.”
“Hm. Sounds dangerously close to worship…”
“I can do that, too,” I announce, dropping to my knees. “Any time you like.”
