He reached out to take her face now, pulling it back to his own, only wanting her to meet his eyes, not to hide anything from him. But she surprised him by suddenly pressing her lips against his own.
He was fairly certain that, for just a moment, his heart stopped beating within his chest. He was fairly certain that this, just this brief press of her lips against his, would be the end of him, and that in exchange for this pleasure he would go gladly. She tasted of apples and fresh water and everything he had ever wanted in life, and when she pulled away, he felt bereft and broken.
Her eyes were glowing, and he was certain that if he looked in a mirror his would be too. She was blushing hard as she bit on her lip, and she nodded at him as if making sure he was okay.
Even if she could hear, he would be too speechless to talk. So, he simply nodded, and she brought her fingers together on both hands before bringing her hands together.
Kiss.
He made the sign back.Kiss.He made it again. And then once more.
She obliged him, pressing her lips to his one more time. It was, yet again, chaste and gentle. But Cohen had never been more excited.
He’d never been more hopeful.
She stood suddenly, walking across the room to the ice cream counter. She reached in, filling two cups with a pale peach-coloured ice cream. She brought them back to the table, sliding one before him. She made a gesture with one hand by her cheek, as though squeezing a ball.
He tasted the ice cream and understood.
Orange.
He nodded at her, before reciting back the signs he had learned.Apple. Sandwich. Water. Orange. Kiss.
Her smile was proud and happy. Her smile, he realised, was everything.
They ate their ice cream in companionable silence. It was sweet, tart and tangy on the tongue.
And Cohen knew, without a doubt, that he was coming back here next Tuesday.
Chapter Three
Bitter Chocolate
Cohen first met Christine in Bar 54, one of those God-awful rooftop places that served drinks so expensive you might as well fling your wallet into the city below while signing away your children’s college funds. He’d just sunk six hundred and fifty dollars on a bottle of 2008 Napa Valley red the barman assured him was ‘quite interesting’, before smuggling it into the only corner of the lounge that wasn’t crawling with tourists.
He drank his wine steadily as daylight turned into night behind the New York City skyline, a sunset that Bar 54 milked with their over-inflated prices and pretentious wine list. Six hundred and fifty dollars on a Californian wine, really? Cohen winced. He was by no means a wine snob, but this was only a Napa Valley, for God’s sake. His father, who drank only the cheapest black-market Scotch he could get his hands on–‘because taxes and import duties are only for mugs, Cohen’– would be so ashamed of him.
But as always, it was better if Cohen didn’t think of Jim Ford, or the reason he was there in a flashy bar near Times Square anyway.
It was better if he didn’t think of words like ‘cancer’, or ‘hospice’, or of phrases like ‘this is your last chance to see him’,or ‘don’t inflict a lonely death on an old man, Cohen’.
And so he drank his overpriced wine in an overpriced bar, minding his own business as always, when a sultry looking woman appeared in his peripheral vision.
‘Hey.’ Cohen signalled to her. ‘Can I get some bar snacks over here? Maybe some salted nuts?’
The look she gave him was one of pure disdain.
‘Do I look like asalted nutskind of girl?’ she asked, a hand on her hip.
For the first time, Cohen considered her. His mistake was genuine. On a passing glance, he honestly had thought her a waitress. She had that hardened, well-groomed look that the high-end server community seemed to have patented.
But on a second, closer inspection, he could see that he was mistaken. There was little chance this girl had ever held a tray in her life. Petite and thin, with a shock of dark hair, she was too expensive looking to ever be a waitress. Her hands were manicured and soft, her arms tanned and waxed. Her cheekbones were high, set below ice-blue eyes, and her make-up immaculately softened the sharp lines of her face. Was she beautiful? Yes, undoubtedly. But it was a forced beauty, the kind brought about through good contouring and well-tended hair styling. Cohen was under no illusions as he took her in. He understood that there was nothing natural about this woman whatsoever. But still, she’d dressed to impress in a short skirt, fitted blouse and fuck-me-boots, and it took him only a few seconds to reach a decision.
Alright, Cohen thought.He would. The shoes had spoken and let it be so. Who was he to argue with four inches of stiletto?
‘Well,’ he leant back in his chair. ‘What sort of snacks are you offering?’
Her gaze was frigid as it passed over him.
