Chapter Eleven
You do not fancy him, I tell myself. It’s just refreshing to be with a man who’s happy to conduct a two-way conversation. Logan was all ‘me, me, me’. Typical actor, with his insecurity.
‘So, tell me more about you, ’cause I need to stop talking!’ I say, wrapping my arms around myself. ‘I ramble when I get nervous. I most definitely overtalked in Fallon the chicken wing looks minute between his long fingers. He turns it anticlockwise.
I hold my half-eaten wing in front of my mouth. ‘Really?!’ as I say the word in shock.
‘I don’t look like the buildery type?’ His shoulders shake now as he laughs.
‘No, not really.’ I bend over my wing, take another bite, chew slowly.
‘What did you think I did? Go on now, be honest.’ He dips his fingers in the water bowl and crosses his long legs.
He has to shift his body to the side to allow this action.
His keychain rattles from his belt buckle and he looks relaxed again.
He lifts his beer and takes a long drink, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
I’ve gotten used to the dried-sauce-stain on his forehead now. I’m still not telling him, though.
‘Honestly?’ I take a cold sip and put my wine back down. ‘Maybe, eh . . . let me see, work in a record store? Skateboard shop?’ I offer, tongue-in-cheek. I’m really starting to enjoy myself. I pick up another delicious wing. ‘One of those computer-fixing places.’
He laughs again, and it’s really contagious, it comes deep from his belly, his shoulders rocking, and I laugh, too, as he tucks his long hair behind his ear once again.
‘Jesus, that’s not great. I’m a grown-ass man.’ He drains his pint to near the end.
‘First things that came to my mind.’ I sip, hunch my own shoulders up high and make a face at him.
‘Better than serial killer, I suppose,’ he says, deadpan.
‘Way better,’ I agree, nodding slowly, licking my fingers.
‘Or a hot-dog health inspector at an outdoor music festival.’ He physically shudders.
I make a ‘scream’ face, hands on each side. ‘Or a Portaloo toilet cleaner at an outdoor music festival.’
‘Can you imagine?’ he says, appalled. He pinches the bridge of his elongated nose.
‘No!’ I block my own nose as the couple at the table next to us look over. ‘Executioner!’ I call out.
‘That’d be a head wreck!’ Donal raises his hand and we high-five, both of us freely howling now.
‘Clamper!’ we both say at the exact same time.
‘TOUCH WOOD!’ we shout in unison at one another again, tipping our fingers off the wooden table in perfect synchronicity.
We both freeze.
Neither of us speaks.
We eyeball one another curiously.
‘Ohhh. That was m-mad,’ I stammer, pressing down on my breastbone to steady my breath.
I sit back.
He sits back.
Our eyes lock.