Page 20 of Enzo

“I-I was checking that you're not a dummy,” I explain.

“Excuse me?” I can't tell if he's puzzled or vexed.

“A mannequin, a waxwork, one of those things that are made of stone, you know, like a statue.”

He watches me in silence, and I, anxious to fill the gap, ramble on.

“Sorry. So sorry for poking you, but I couldn't resist. Anyway, I can see that you're not a mannequin, you know, a waxwork. And you're definitely not made of stone.”

I poke him again but he just looks at me. His lips twitch and I can't tell if he's suppressing a smile, or deciding what to say.

I feel nervous now. And a little silly. Like I’ve imposed myself on him, and all he wants is to be left alone.

“I'm not a waxwork, no,” he says eventually.

“Clearly.” I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn't. “You're not very talkative,” I add, after another long, awkward pause.

“So I've been told.”

I chuckle. “I can believe it.”

His lips twitch again but he doesn’t speak. My arm starts to hurt from holding the mask up for so long. While I do like hiding behind it, I can’t do it for much longer.

“That’s clever.” I nod at his mask.

“What is?”

“Your mask. It’s a tied one. I wish I’d bought one like that.”

The only problem is, with this man wearing his mask, it means I can't read his expression, though he does have nice eyes. Eyes the color of rich, dark chocolate. I don't feel like he's brash or arrogant. He's not rude, either. He could have cold-shouldered me, believing I was crazy—I've been known to have this effect on people—but, so far he hasn’t walked away.

He looks around. “Are you waiting for someone?”

“Me?” I shake my head. Now I'm confused. “Waiting for what?”

“I don't know.” He looks around again, before turning to me. “Have you confused me for someone else?”

“Uh ... no.”

“Did you mean to talk to me?”

“Would you rather I didn't?” I throw back.

“No, no, it's not that.” He does that twitching thing again, like he's battling between saying something and deciding against it.

I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. I'm not used to being around someone who doesn’t talk. My classroom is mostly noisy, and the children are boisterous, always talking and laughing. I love the chaos and the joy that six-year-olds bring.

Now with this man, I find myself in unfamiliar territory. He strikes me as someone who is unassuming; someone who is careful with his words.

“Do you come here often?” I attempt a tried and tested question to break the ice.

This time he actually laughs.

“Not often. No, I wouldn't say so. Every so often I guess.”

Our eyes meet again.

“I'm not even sure what that word salad was. You’ve said a lot of words but you haven't actually told me anything.”