“I only crashed because you jumped out of the corn like an apparition,” he snaps.
“Still not risking it.”
“Don’t be an idiot: get on.”
“Not a chance. I’d rather walk, and I promise I won’t go trampling through your precious soybeans like a great big fricking elephant.”
Dickhead.
“Turn right here,” he directs me as we come out onto the farm track, his motorbike light sweeping across a big red structure.
“I know,” I reply.
“Of course you do. You’re an architect with an excellent sense of direction.”
I give him a look.
It kills me that I can’t make out any of his facial features.
“So how long are you in town for?” he asks casually as he wheels his bike along beside me.
“What, we’re doing small talk now?” I reply with disbelief.
“We’re not animals,” he bats back.
“No, but you don’t strike me as a small-talk kind of guy.”
“That’s an interesting conclusion to jump to about someone you’ve only just met.”
“So youdolike small talk?”
“No, I hate it, but I only asked you how long you’re here for, not what your favorite color is or whether you have any pets. Jeez, you’re hard work.”
I smirk to myself. “Two weeks, black, and not anymore, but I used to have a cat named Zaha.”
“After Zaha Hadid?”
“Yes.”
She’s one of my favorite architects.
“I’m more of a dog man myself.”
“You are no friend of mine,” I whisper solemnly.
I’m joking. I love dogs.
“We haven’t been friends since the moment you made me crash my bike. And black is not a color.”
“Oh, we’re going to argue about that, now, are we?”
“No argument. It’s a fact.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re a pain in the arse? Don’t answer that,” I add at the same moment that he replies, “Yes.”
His ensuing laugh makes me feel giddy.
“If you want to get rid of me, all you have to do is climb on the back of my bike and I’ll have you home in no time.” His voice is laced with amusement.
