“We must always remember our place in the world,” she said, not unkindly. That hurt far more than cruelty would have.
***
The man with silver eyes continued to follow her home.
Not close enough to frighten her but not far enough to pretend otherwise.
She no longer found it unsettling—that large shadow keeping pace somewhere behind her every evening while the boy chattered sleepily beside her. But weeks passed and James was nothing if not persistent. He never asked to come in, seemingly content to bide his time.
If she slowed near the crossing, he slowed.
If rain began suddenly, somehow, he appeared closer.
Once, when two drunken lads staggered out of an alley laughing too loudly at her expense, they spotted James standing half in shadow behind them and abruptly remembered urgent business elsewhere.
She did not know how to tell him to stop, though she knew she should.
The truth was one she allowed herself to accept in the darkness of the night with a hopeless pang. Though she knew she was nothing but a passing fancy, an exotic taste he would use and discard once she had given in, she was no longer sure she wanted him to stop. Even though she knew how it would end.
***
The only time she saw anything beyond the lazy scrutiny which gave her goosebumps was the evening her hair came undone halfway through her shift.
One moment it had been pinned tightly; the next her hair tie had snapped and the heavy dark mass slipped free.
It fell past her hips in a thick glossy skein of hair that made several conversations in the pub abruptly falter. Asha was not surprised as she and Mavis were the only women in the pub. It felt like everything they did was scrutinized.
Asha had muttered under her breath and tried to gather it quickly, fingers clumsy with exhaustion as she twisted it into a makeshift knot.
And all the while she had felt his eyes burning a hole into her.
By the time she finally secured it into a lopsided bun with trembling hands, her pulse was beating like a drum for reasons she did not entirely understand.
That night on the bus, the boy fell asleep against her shoulder almost immediately. The bus rattled through the dark streets of Wakefield, windows fogged from damp coats and winter breath. Somewhere near the front, the conductor muttered over coins while an elderly woman eyed Asha with open suspicion.
James sat behind her in silence.
Then suddenly, a rough, callused finger brushed lightly against the nape of her neck.
Asha almost jumped out of her seat.
James’s fingers lingered briefly where loose strands curled against her skin.
“You need to wear your hair in a braid or a bun,” he murmured, leaving her wondering why he was talking about hairstyles. Maybe this was a strange courtship ritual here.
His voice was low enough that only she could hear it over the growl of the engine. He seemed to have given the matter a lot of thought.
“No,” he corrected softly. “In a braid. Your bun can come undone.”
Asha turned toward him slowly, wide-eyed.
The dim yellow lights of the bus carved deep shadows across his face. His steely gaze remained fixed on her hair, on the strands still escaping around her cheeks.
And then he added in a whisper—
“You’ll wear it down only for me.”
Heat flooded her so violently she thought for one horrifying second the entire bus would notice. The conductor certainly seemed to notice something was amiss. He glanced over with the weary expression of a man already judging impropriety.
