Page 27 of King of Guilt

I shrugged, trying to keep my own smile alive. “In a way, I guess.”

“Sleepy?”

“Gosh, no.”

Putting aside the book, he stood up. His movements were relaxed, as if we had been living together for a year. The smile on his face was serene and calming—or perhaps I needed to see him smile to feel good at the moment. I watched him walk over to the bottles, his hand hovering over the glasses. “Join me for a drink?”

“Okay.” I nodded, stepping toward the little sofa—loveseat—in the corner near the fireplace. “I love how warm this room is.”

“It’s because it’s relatively small, and the fire’s big.” He paused. “What would you like to drink?”

“What are you having?”

“I’m feeling… Brandy. They say it cures.”

“A sore throat.” I laughed.

He shrugged. “Oh, well.”

“Let’s try that brandy.” I paused. “What are we curing tonight?”

“Oh, I think… uh…” He proceeded to pour. “I guess the memory of this painfully stiff scene I just read.”

Laughing, I watched him strut back to me with two glasses, extending his arm with mine. As I took it, I asked, “What’s it about?”

Sitting back down, he placed one leg over the other. “You know how a writer should jump on any opportunity to give deeper meaning to the scene at hand?”

“I guess?” I took a sip. “I’m no writer.”

“Well, okay.” He cleared his throat and gestured with a hand. “So, the main character is this dangerous guy—he’s big, armed, mysterious, and dabbles in all sorts of danger.”

“Like a gangster?”

“Of sorts, we can say that.” He nodded. “But then, in the middle of this dry life he leads… you know, meetings in dark alleys, mostly men who speak in code, always looking over his shoulder. And finally, there’s this scene where he meets this beautiful little woman—like, literally, she’s described as petite, delicate, and gorgeous.”

I nodded. “The opposite of everything he deals with?”

“Basically! Right?” He gestures toward me with his hand in agreement, raising his eyebrows. “And me—as a reader—I’m expecting some kind of emotion when he asks her to dance. I’m not saying something flashy or corny, just… it’s the first scene in the book where you get to see the human side of this man, yeah?”

“Hmm,” I nodded again, listening.

“And… nothing.” He shrugged, removing his leg from off the other, placing down his feet next to each other on the floor. I noticed that he was barefoot, his slippers next to the chair just a few inches away.

“And that disappoints you? Maybe it’s meant to be a one-time thing. Maybe they don’t fall in love.”

“But here’s the thing—he does fall in love at some point in the book. Now, I don’t know if that’s the woman in question or not. I’m not there yet. But…” He lifted a finger, his eyes widening a little. “As a reader, this far in the book, I should be given some reason to sympathize with this cold-hearted fella, right? Anything!”

Since this was the first time that we’d spoken about anything besides work, I was beginning to enjoy the conversation. “How would you have put it?”

“I don’t know.” His eyes roamed aimlessly around the room, a faint smile on his face, the meaning of which I couldn’t decipher. “Say, maybe… some nonsense about the music inspiring their bodies to let themselves be taken by the beautifully mundane moment in sweet unison… or her eyes carrying some comfort in the midst of his dark, dangerous world… or…” His eyes momentarily returned to me as he smirked, instantly looking away again. “Or some garbage like that.”

My lips let a half-chuckle escape. “If you think it’s garbage, why are you even thinking it? Could it possibly be something you wish to read about? In which case, why a gangster story? Why not pick up a romance?”

Taking a sip, his eyes fixated on me as his eyebrows wrinkled inward. Licking his lips after the drink, he lowered his hand, staring at it. “Did you want to grow up and be a therapist?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I consumed a mouthful of my drink, not particularly enjoying the flavor.

“Good,” he said with a laugh that was aimed at lightening the blow. “Because it’s not that.” Pausing, his eyes seemed to examine me, as if to ensure that I was worthy of what he was about to share. “Pearl taught me how to dance. It was before my high school prom. Besides the fun-loving woman that she was, she was also graceful and patient. She tried to teach me—through dance—to summon enough confidence so that I could go after what I wanted, without being afraid of failure… or embarrassing myself. She used to say that dance is an experience invented entirely to be felt and enjoyed, not performed. So, as long as I felt that, I couldn’t dance wrong.”

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