Page 14 of Sleep

Last week, I’d mistimed my visits with Donovan’s working hours, as they had been doing the breakfast shift and gone home long before I arrived for my much-needed evening soirée. The week before that, I’d managed to get served by them twice, which had been a welcome delight. Then the next day, again, no Donovan. I’d sulked despite that young Milliee girl filling me in on all the details and even nodded appreciatively as she’d yapped on. Donovan still hadn’t found a place to live, was, according to Milliee, constantly fighting with Mark and had tried to sack Aimee for having a cigarette in the staff toilets mid-shift. Milliee had been ‘well pissed off’ with that little stunt. Also, she hated wine, couldn’t remember anything Mark was trying to teach her and had no idea what to substitute for my Shiraz. But, she’d added, Donovan had told her she had to look straight at me when speaking so I could read her lips.

I’d coughed to hold back laughter, then swallowed it down as Milliee went into detail about her lip fillers and cosmetology course, and her plans to conquer the world of stage make-up with her newfound skills.

I had no doubt she would and told her as much. At least I could understand her when spoke to me like I was a truant three-year-old being scolded for my stroppiness.

Despite my snarky inner monologue, I was grateful for her efforts. I hadn’t even had the strength to kick up a fuss over the fact that I’d drunk them dry of that crate of Shiraz. I liked it. I wanted it. They had none. Milliee brought me another glass of water as I fumed inside and smiled on the outside.

Yesterday, I’d spotted Donovan in the back before even being shown to my seat by the delightful Tabitha. I liked her. Professional, kind, she kept me safe from other people and seemed to know exactly how I liked my little visits here to play out. The right seat, the right table, a glass of water, no menu, no silly chit-chat. She waited to catch my eye before speaking and always remembered to inform me if Donovan was working or not. Then the food would appear like magic, followed by a brief visit from the head chef, whose name I could never remember, who I dismissed with a quick flick of my wrist, pretending I was very busy on my phone to disguise my poor manners.

I got fed. No sign of Donovan after that.

So, I went home.

Didn’t sleep. I never did.

Here I was again, after another productive day, in another tracksuit, sitting at my preferred restaurant table, bleary-eyed and feeling at odds, wondering if I should just get up and go home, forget about eating. I wasn’t even hungry.

“You look tired.”

The smile that plastered itself to my face was almost embarrassing, but here they were, and I must have shown slight shock as they blushed.

No make-up. A bare face under gelled-back hair and a tailored suit that clung to their every curve.

Mabel Donovan was stunning.

“Wow,” I said. I didn’t mean to let that slip, but I couldn’t help it. They were just so…surprising. Every time I’d had any interaction with them, they surprised me, and I had no idea why I liked it so much. Why I was sitting here smiling as they slid onto the seat next to me, folded their arms over the table and smiled.

That smile.

The air was warm, heat radiating from my cheeks.

“Mr Templar, you are aware that underneath all this fabric, although the body parts are male, it’s not always who I am. My heart is very fluid.”

What a phrase to just throw out there.

“I do know that, Donovan,” I assured them. I wanted to add something more, but I was terrified of…I don’t know. Offending them? Still I couldn’t stop smiling. “You have a sizable package. It’s rather fetching, especially in those orange trousers you sometimes wear.”

God. Now I’d done it.

They jerked in feigned shock and rolled their eyes at me. “Mark’s right, then.”

“About?” I enquired.

“You’re not very discreet in the way you eye-fuck me when I cross the room.”

The silence was thick for a moment, and then I laughed because what the hell was going on here? They were smiling too. A nice smile, one of those smiles that made me relax right back into my chair.

I liked when people hit back at me, when they challenged me and weren’t frightened of the ghost they expected me to be. I liked when people were just who they were. And I liked when I could feel like me. The real me.

Oh, who was I kidding? I never let the real me out to play. I was restrained, firm, neatly packaged into what people expected, even here, once again, in my grey tracksuit with my hair standing on end, looking like a hobo off the streets.

I didn’t like when people flirted with me because I’d never really understood it—not even now, even though I was under no illusion that Mabel Donovan was doing anything of the sort. I was painfully aware of my indiscreet addiction to their attention, and that they had, with a swift stream of words, told me to rein it in. I hadn’t been flirting. I had no inclinations of any sort towards them. I just wanted…I had no idea what I wanted, apart from them talking to me and a nice meal and all this sunshine on my face.

“Mr Templar.” They were trying not to smile as they visibly recomposed themselves into the professional they were supposed to be. Work mode on. “I don’t fraternise with our clients. There is a firm boundary line here.”

“Fully understood.” I nodded. I wasn’t after any of that and agreed with their stance, but I felt we’d established a small bond of trust—something that made me relax, a rarity for me in public. I was always uptight, alert to my surroundings, trying to read people as I spoke with care and always with the intent of getting my way.

Except I wasn’t in work mode, and I didn’t know what to say. As it turned out, my mouth seemed to know what to do before my brain had the chance to engage.

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