For a moment they stared, drinking the other in. Then River turned back towards the door, unlocking it and walking inside. She didn’t hesitate when she reached out to take his hand, pulling him into the ice creamery through the too-small doorway, indicating that he should duck as he stepped into the room. She switched on the lamp, and as he blinked with the sudden change in lighting, she smiled at him again.
‘I’m Cohen,’ he said, slowly and clearly. ‘We met last week.’
But now she frowned, biting her lip.
‘I had strawberry ice cream,’ he tried again. ‘I just ... I just really, really wanted to see you again.’
But still, that patient frown.
Desperate, he pointed to the ice cream counter, as if to remind her, but if anything, her frown only deepened. She pointed to the cones on the countertop and stepped behind the counter, reaching for her scoop, because Cohen was such an idiot. He’d made her think he was there for the ice cream, and not for her. Frantically, he pulled on her arm to stop her moving, to stop her thought process.
To stop her from leaving him, if he was entirely honest.
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head emphatically. ‘No,’ he said again, pointing to the ice cream. He took a deep, steadying breath. ‘Yes.’ This time he nodded his head up and down, making sure she understood the movement. ‘Yes,’ he murmured again, pointing to her.
Her face, so still but a moment before, seemed to blossom before him. She brought a hand to her chest, pointing to herself.
Really?her body seemed to ask.
‘Yes,’ he said again, nodding in the affirmative. God, how much he wished he could add that he was ruined for anyone else. That he had a thousand things he wanted to say to her ... but no way to make her understand.
He must have frowned, because she took his hand, her fingers slender and cool within his own, and, smiling all the way, led him to a table in the ice creamery. She indicated that he should sit, and he did so obediently. She went back to the door, locking it securely, before returning to the table and sitting beside him.
The bag she carried she set before them, and Cohen watched as she opened it up and started pulling items out. An apple, red and crisp. A bottle of water. A sandwich.
Lunch,he suddenly realised.
And then he panicked, because this was clearly River’s lunch break he had intruded upon, and when she started to divide her items in two, cutting the sandwich and apple in half, pouring half her water into a cup for him, he motioned for her to stop, that he couldn’t possibly inconvenience her, that—
But she laid a calm hand against his flailing one, bringing the other to his face, forcing him to look into her eyes.
It’s okay,he felt her telling him.Stay.
And so he nodded, biting into the half apple she offered him.
‘It’s good,’ he said.
She smiled, clapping her hands together.
But it wasn’t just an expression of joy she was making. Instead, she took her right hand and formed a ‘C’ shape, moving it upwards and forwards from her mouth.
She did it again, pointing to the apple.
Instantly, Cohen understood.
‘Apple,’ he whispered. ‘You’re telling me apple.’
He tried the movement for himself, repeating her action back to her. He struggled at first, timid and frightened of failing, and he was appalled that he was so uncertain of his own fingers. But River encouraged him, moving her hand over his and showing him the word. When he got it right, her smile was almost blinding, and he wasn’t certain he’d ever felt such a rush of satisfaction from the actions of his own body before.
His body, in which he had always felt so awkward, so out of place, suddenly felt like a work of art. And he wanted nothing more now than to keep painting, to let her be the guided hand on his brush, bringing words to life with his fingertips.
She pointed to the sandwich, this time holding her left hand upwards and flat in front of her, bringing her right hand down to meet it. She patted twice, and then indicated for him to do the same.
It was a relatively easy sign but when he did it successfully, River patted him on the back. She didn’t remove her hand though, not even when she reached for her water and took a long, delicate sip. When she pulled the cup away a droplet remained on her mouth, sitting temptingly on the plush red of her lower lip. Cohen stared, his own mouth abruptly watering. By all that was holy, what he wouldn’t do to lick that moisture from her skin. But she saw his eyes and mistook the longing within them for curiosity.
She made a movement with her hands that Cohen realised meantmouth.He made the same movement back, pointing to his own lips. She nodded and then blushed, her eyes darting away, suddenly shy.
‘No, no,’ he begged, out loud and unthinking. ‘No, don’t turn away.’
