On him: I want to know what every line means.
When his eyes meet mine, I’m caught once again. But once again, I don’t care, because once again, we’re smiling at each other. Smiling until my cheeks hurt at the absurdity of whatever’s happening.
A woman enters the store while he saunters up and down every aisle. She asks about a cameo brooch, and I know where he is as I do my best to help her. Know what shelf he’s looking at, what items he touches.
I’d feel embarrassed if every time I looked his way he wasn’t already doing the same.
Then—finally—he’s at the counter, right across from me, face made for fun more perfect up close than it was across the store.
I smile at the absurdity of the silent dance we just did only for it to widen when he sets a vintage Hohner harmonica on the counter.
“You always doodle on expired prophylactics?” he asks.
“What?” My eyes widen and heart skips. “No. Why?”
He gestures at the tins and, worse, the used condom still pinned in place right next to the harmonica.
“Oh.” I stare at it, unable to get a grip on myself. “Ha!” In a swift motion, I drag it to the edge of the counter where it drops into the trash can. “I usually save that for my favorite copies of Tijuana bibles. Guess I was feeling crazy today.”
I don’t know why I say it—ninety-nine percent of the population would never get the reference—but when his brows lift, I realize he’s in the one percent who knows I’ve brought pre-1960s taboo comic strip porn into the conversation.Impressive.
While he doesn’t fully smile, the way his cheek twitches lets me know he’s fully amused. His eyes flick to my denim overalls then back to my face.
“So it’s dirty cartoons that inspire your creativity?” he asks, rubbing the tip of his nose.
I fight my smile. “Who doesn’t feel creative after seeing Popeye and Olive Oyl in such compromising positions?”
He laughs at this.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “And do you stare at every customer the same way you were just staring at me?”
His directness catches me off guard but feels like a game.
“Only the ones who wear such ridiculous shirts.” I ring the harmonica up and try to stay cool. “Anyone dressed like a clown in public is bound to attract attention.”
“Mission accomplished, I guess.”
I have never fought a smile so hard in my life.
“And your excuse for staring at me?”
“No excuse,” he admits easily. “It’s hard not to stare at something so beautiful.”
My heart trips but I laugh. “And you’re a smooth talker.” I hand him the harmonica in exchange for his credit card. “Do you play?”
“Depends.” He leans a denim-covered hip against the counter, looking at me like he has me. The smile I can’t seem to get rid of makes me think he just might.
“On?”
This close to him, his eyes become a kaleidoscope of golds and browns. “On if you’ll show me around town.”
I laugh—so easily—at the lack of connection between the two. “And why would I do that?”
“Because I’m here teaching summer school”—he does not look like a teacher—“and I need to know all the best places to eat and best wines to drink. I need to know everything about this place.” When I think he’s done: “And the people who live here.” Then: “Immediately.”
“What do you teach?”
“History.”
