Blue
Blue
“What the fluff was that?”
Yes. Gabriel says the word fluff out loud. While he can easily match my proficient and practiced professional level of swearing when he wants to, he believes that there are far too few actual swear words, and he prefers not to limit himself.
“What?” I know feigning innocence will just rile him up. He clearly saw me wink at the cute guy on the blue sofa.
“Gabriel.” Hissing his name as he starts turning his head doesn’t stop him. Of course it doesn’t.
When I glance back up at the stranger, he looks like he wants to crawl underneath the couch so that we can’t see him anymore. Before I can even shift my gaze back to scold Gabriel for scaring him, the man downs the rest of his espresso, sets his cup on the small table, and takes off toward the door .
“Ooooooo, that explains it.”
I feel myself flush as my gaze returns to Gabriel, only to find him wiggling his eyebrows at me.
“He is a hot one, isn’t he? He’s been coming in regularly for about a week now, so maybe he’s moved in nearby. Want me to try and find out for you? He seems a bit uptight. Maybe a banker or stockbroker or something. The sort of guy that just needs a night with you to loosen them up a bit. I bet he’d start off all slow and reserved and work his way up to one of your elusive B pluses by the end of the night.”
I roll my eyes so hard that for a moment, I’m afraid they might get stuck in the back of my head, just like my mother always warned me they might.
“You know I don’t pick up random stockbrokers a block away from home.”
“Maybe you should. He actually seems really sweet.”
I can’t help the snort that escapes. “Ya. That’s what I need in my life. A sweet stockbroker who lives a block away from me.”
Gabriel flashes a grin and wiggles his eyebrows again. “It might be.”
“It’s not. ”
He reaches across the table and twists my nipple before I can stop him.
“I love you, Blue, and I’m not saying that your one-night-stand rule isn’t justified given, well…your history and all, but…”
He reaches over to pinch me yet again when I try to interrupt him, and I smack his hand away just in time. I swear half our relationship is me slapping him when he tries to lovingly assault me.
“I’m not pushing the issue. I’m just saying. He’s hot. He seems sweet, and you winked at him. You flicking winked at him. That is not your game.”
He may or may not have a point.
“So.” I sound like a whiny teenager sassing their parents.
“Blue, you are the most predictable guy I know. We go out on Friday nights; you flirt with someone at the club or the bar or for Harrold’s sake, the movie theater, and you take them home. No, you go home with them or disappear into the bathroom or you squish yourselves into the back seat of their car like you’re horny teenagers. Also, calling it flirting is being kind, by the way. You’re less subtle than a train crash.”
I flick a sugar packet at his stupid face. “I’m not that bad. ”
“Babe, I’ve literally heard you say, ‘Want to go fuck?’ to like a dozen guys. Not even, ‘Do you want to get out of here? Do you want to go fuck?’”
“Well, I don’t want them to think I’m asking for anything more complicated than that.”
“So maybe if you run into cute stockbroker again, ask him if he wants to fuck and see what happens.”
“No.”
“You’re no fun at all. Maybe I’ll ask him.”
I take a sip of my espresso before answering, “You should.”
Why does that leave me feeling sick to my stomach? I saw the man for all of five minutes across a crowded coffee shop. I shouldn’t care if Gabriel wants to fuck him. Hell, I should be happy for both of them; they’d probably have a great night together. They’d probably have a great morning, too, as they stumble out of Gabriel’s bedroom, rumpled and giggling and trying to steal my plastic-flavored coffee. They’d probably fall madly in love and buy a house in the suburbs and get dogs and have babies. They’d probably be happy together forever.
I decide to ignore the fact that thinking about their happiness makes me decidedly unhappy .
I’m grateful when Gabriel drops the subject, kisses my cheek, and heads back to work without a word, even though I know he thinks my abrupt response means that he’s won this particular battle.
I’m even more grateful that he doesn’t say a word when I show up to the café earlier than normal the next day, and that my appearance happens to coincide with the time of day I first saw the winkable stranger.
I see him a handful of times over the next few weeks. We make eye contact and smile at one another each time, but I haven’t let myself wink at him again. I haven’t let myself approach him even though I want to. I haven’t let myself buy his espresso or ask him to dinner - or if he wants to fuck - even though I want to.
I haven’t studied the way the sunlight that streams in through the large windows and over the blue velvet couch he favors dances through his short auburn hair, highlighting strands of red and gold. I haven’t strained my eyes from across the room trying to figure out whether there are any flecks of brown or gold hiding in his unusual forest-green eyes. I haven’t stared at his broad shoulders or noticed the way they taper down to narrow hips as he orders a refill or politely places his cup on the counter instead of leaving it on one of the tables before he exits the café. I haven’t noticed that he has the body of a marine or professional baseball player or Greek god. I haven’t noticed the way his long, pale fingers almost tenderly caress his keyboard as he works or the way his brows furrow and his typing pauses from time to time as he closes his eyes in thought.
I definitely haven’t.
I haven’t thought about him while I’m talking with Gabriel during his lunch break. I haven’t thought about him while I’m lost in a spiral of thought and emotion and flame at the shop. I haven’t thought about him as I lie in bed, trying my best to fall asleep at night. I definitely haven’t thought about him while my hands slide slick and wet across my skin in the shower.
Nope. I’ve barely noticed the man at all.
Gabriel hasn’t mentioned my obsession. He hasn’t said a word about the fact I’ve been to the café more often than normal or commented on the way my appearances are almost always earlier in the day than they used to be despite my intense hatred of mornings. He hasn’t pointed out that he occasionally has to repeat my name to draw my attention back to the conversation when I get lost in surreptitiously watching the man’s fingers flying as he types, or the tip of his tongue trace his bottom lip when he’s deep in thought. Gabriel hasn’t even brought up the fact that I’ve come home alone the past three Friday nights instead of finding a warm, willing body to enjoy.
The thing is, I don’t know why I can’t stop watching the man. I don’t understand why I can’t keep my mind off him for more than a few hours. I’ve been infatuated before, sure, but years ago, when I was young and stupid and too na?ve to know better. I’m not foolish and innocent any longer. I know what the end result of indulging this hormone-induced fascination will be. Where allowing myself to feel like this will lead. I’ll end up hurt and alone and wondering yet again how something that once seemed so good could have gone so desperately wrong.