Page 41 of Kaine

He reaches across the table and I let him drop the salt on the table, instead of risking our fingers touching again. I take the salt and shake it gently over my steamed vegetables, putting it down with a soft thud onto the table.

And then it hits me, without this man, this strange, mysterious, heroic man sitting in front of me, I could be dead.

Something about the revelation makes me start to shake and the tears fall. I take advantage of him not looking at me to wipe my face, wiping, wiping, wiping the tears away. But the more I wipe, the more they fall. An ache simmers in my chest, an anxiousness, a fear, that suddenly seems like it’s been there forever. I feel a sob threaten to break and I try to hold it back.

I turn away from the table, trying to compose myself, but when I do, he’s there. Holding out a tissue. The sight touches me so much, the dam breaks, and I feel a wave of emotion crash over me. And I don’t hold back.

I cry. I cry at the memory of how scared I was, at the fear I now carry within me, for what might have happened, for what did happen. I cry through layers of emotion I haven’t yet processed.

But just as I am ready to drown, I feel myself enveloped in something warm, safe. It’s the sanctuary of his arms around me. I cling to him as I let the sobs break and recede, then crash over me again.

I don’t know how long I’m crying in his arms. Just that when I’m finally done, he’s still there.

It’s almost a minute between teary hiccups now. And he’s still holding me.

“Thank-thank you, Kaine,” I finally muster the sense of mind to say.

“You’re welcome. I have plenty more tissues.”

His unexpected joke makes me laugh, and in my snotty state, it comes out as a snort.

I bury my face in his bicep, horrified, and I feel the unmistakable tremor of someone laughing. He’s not making a sound, but the shake of his chest vibrates through me.

“Hey!” I pull away.

“Sorry,” he says, the lightness in his voice telling me, he’s not sorry at all.

I push him away and he strolls back to his seat, resuming his meal, stabbing at the remnants of his cold pork chop.

For the first time I notice there’s a cut on his right hand. And it appears to be bleeding.

“Oh my God! You’re bleeding!” I point to his hand. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“Oh,” he lifts his hand and stares at it, as if he’s noticing his injury for the first time. “It’s fine.” He dabs at it with a napkin and the blood spreads like a red chrysanthemum bloom.

“Hang on,” I tell him, and run over to my purse where I always keep Band-Aids. I walk over to his side of the table and take his hand in mine, ignoring the humming wherever our skin touches. I examine his wound and it looks clean. It’s a long cut, but not deep. I tear open two band aids and stick them over his wound.

I let go of his hand and he pulls it away, turning it to scrutinize the covered gash. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, I have plenty more Band-Aids,” I say, mirroring his words.

He doesn’t reply, just looks at me, and his silence makes me squirm. I fill in the blanks in the conversation to ease the awkwardness. “I work with books and documents all day, every day. Papercuts are the bane of my existence.”

He still doesn’t reply, but there’s a twitch on his face, the only indication that he’s heard a word I said.

I walk back to my seat and pick at my plate.

“So, um, anyway, I guess I can go home now.”

He looks up sharply, “What?”

“Well, I stayed here until I could say ‘Thank you’ and you even got a snort as a bonus. So now I can leave you alone.”

He sits back, reaching for his wine glass and takes a long sip. He plays with the foot of the glass for a long time before he finally speaks.

“It’s too late. It’s not safe.”

“I’ll take a cab, it’s fine. I’ve inconvenienced you enough.”