He sets the tray down neatly on his desk, and then he turns back to me.
His eyes drop to my hands again, where the scars feel louder under his gaze. I resist rubbing my fingers over the faint lines and try not to draw attention to them, which turns out to be a waste of time.
“Where do those scars come from?” he asks with a slight tilt of his head.
I glance down at my clasped hands and I want to lie but I don’t.
“I work with metal,” I say. “Sculptures.”
“How long?”
“Most of my life.”
“What kind?”
“Industrial. Scrap. Steel. Sometimes copper.”
“Dangerous work,” he says, sounding almost robotic in his replies.
“If you’re careless,” I say with a joking tone, trying to break whatever this heavy atmosphere is.
He studies the scars again, closely now. “You weren’t careless.”
Those words don’t hit like a compliment, more like a diagnosis from a doctor, but I go with the flow and shrug, feeling very out of place and unsure as to why I’m here.
“It happens.”
I shift my weight on my feet, suddenly too aware of the space he’s occupying as he steps forward. The way the air seems to solidify into a physical form around him.The way my thoughts are starting to feel like birds trapped inside glass, pecking violently to get out.
“You should be careful,” he says.
“With the equipment? I’m more experienced now.”
“With people who pretend to be equipment.”
Huh. I don’t know what that means and I’m not sure I want to with how familiar it hits, like he is hinting at something else. I’m way beyond my comfort zone now as this is the oddest interaction yet.
“I should get back to work,” I say.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t move and neither do I, like I’ve been glued to the ground. For a few seconds, the room vibrates with something that isn’t sound, more like an invisible cloak that’s trying to wrap itself around me.
Finally able to move my feet, I walk out with sweaty palms, and get a sudden whiff of his scent. He smells clean. Cold. Expensive, of course, like someone that doesn’t sweat. Lucky him.
When I make it back to the mail room, Danny looks at me like I’ve returned from a war zone.
“Dude,” he whispers. “What did you do? One of the girls said the boss called you into his office?”
“Nothing. He was just asking about our mail system,” I say. Why am I lying?
“You were in there for at least ten minutes. He never talks to the mail guys. Ever.”
“It felt longer. He’s fucking scary.”
He snorts. “That man gives me stress hives.”
I don’t laugh because he doesn’t know how honest myassessment of Ethan is. But I try to push it to the back of my mind, unwilling to look too far into it. The guy clearly has some social skill issues and that’s okay.
