I straighten, anxious again. If what Louis is suggesting is even remotely correct, I may not live long enough to find out.
I start to close the blinds when I’m distracted by the sight of a man in a black hoodie standing across the street from Matthew. I stare down, trying to make out his features, and he glances up at my window in that moment. It’s quick, and I don’t recognize him. He’s strong and fairly young, I can see from his posture, but he is wearing large sunglasses, and his black ball cap is pulled so low it’s impossible to see his face. Luckily, he can’t see mine, either, because of the mirror effect of the glass. I watch a moment longer, but he soon drops his chin and strides away from the building.
Did I just imagine that? Have I gotten so paranoid that I question a man stopped on a sidewalk, admiring my building? I’m not sure what to think anymore, but he’s gone, so I close the blinds. I make sure everything is turned off, then I fly down the stairs and out to Matthew, eager to get going. He suggests we take the bus, but I grab us a taxi. I prefer Uber, but I’m following Louis’s advice. With a taxi I can pay cash and not be tracked. We settle onto the old fabric seat, and I twist around, trying to catch a glimpse of the man from before, but he’s gone.
Matthew’s apartment is in an old building, kind of like Grandma’s. From what I can see, it hasn’t had any recent renovations. I’m so intrigued by everything in it that the man from the sidewalk fades from my mind and I move on to what’s real, not imagined. The furniture here is possibly twenty years old, but everything is neat and tidy and clean. I’m not surprised to see how simple he keeps his surroundings. He is an archivist. He likes thingsorganized, and the fewer things he has, the easier it is to keep it all filed away.
He has a couple of framed prints that draw me in. One is a snowy scene beside some old stone buildings, and the other is of rock/cliff formations in the ocean. The blend of colours is mesmerizing.
“Monet,” I murmur, appreciating Matthew’s taste.
He folds his arms and leans gently against my side. “No straight, defined lines. The buildings are solid, and the rocks, of course, but the water and the flowers kind of shimmer, you know what I mean? I like the way the light catches the colours.”
It’s beautiful, that he sees that. For a man who spends his days deep in black-and-white facts, this must feel like a breath of fresh air.
“The place isn’t too impressive,” he apologizes, awkward again. “It’s just me, and I don’t spend much time here.”
“I like it. It feels like you.”
“What, dull and old-fashioned?”
“Not at all what I meant. Besides, even if I had, I like old-fashioned. It wouldn’t be an insult as far as I’m concerned. If you don’t spend time here, and you don’t go out for dinner much, what do you like to do?”
His mouth twists to the side as he considers the question. A clock chimes at the other end of the hall. The sound is very distinctive.
“Wait. Do I hear a grandfather clock?”
“Oh, that’s one thing that I do,” he says. “I like to go to auctions. That clock was a real steal.”
Auctions! That sounds fun. “I want to see it later.”
“Later?”
“It just chimed six o’clock. Buy a girl a drink?”
He heads immediately to the kitchen. “Red or white?”
He reappears carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses, along with a plate of bread and butter. We settle onto his brown plaid couch and clink glasses.
I take a sip. “We have lots to talk about, but first.Louis Lewis?Come on. For real?”
“That’s the name on his business card. To be fair, I used to have a friendin high school named Pete Moss. A clarinet player. He changed his name to Zack as soon as he was able. I guess some parents don’t plan ahead. Or maybe they do, and they have a strange sense of humour.” He holds the plate of bread toward me. “Hungry?”
“After all that Thai food? No, are you?”
He shrugs. “Always. Besides, that was hours ago.”
What a strange time to start a relationship. “I have so many questions,” I say, admiring his profile.
He finishes chewing. “There’s a lot going on. And with that building collapsing—”
“Yeah, but I meant that I want to know more about you.”
He flushes. “Oh. All right. Well, first, I’m weird. I know that about me. In general, I like to do dull things. I’ve never touched a football or a hockey stick. I don’t go dancing, and I can’t remember the last time I went to a movie. To be honest, the first real social thing I’ve done in months was go out with you.”
“I’m a terrible dancer,” I admit.
“Maybe,” he says cautiously, “maybe we could take a class.”
