Page 34 of On the Edge

“Thank you,” Henri replies, letting the sarcasm just pass him by. “Have a seat, if you wish. I brought you spaghetti because this seems to be something everyone likes. Also, garlic toast.”

He points to two aluminum containers sitting on the corner of his desk. The small room smells strongly of Italian seasoning and garlic, and I can no longer identify Henri’s lemon scent from earlier. I try not to think too hard on thefact that I’m a little disappointed by that. Sitting down on his bed, I bypass the garlic toast and open up the spaghetti.

“Thanks, but you didn’t have to bring me food. I have food at home.”

“It was no trouble. Sometimes we must have a treat.”

“Mm,” I hum around a mouthful of noodles. The only treat I’m particularly interested in right now are his thighs. Fuck my life.

Henri sits down in the desk chair and scoots it close enough to me that I finally get a whiff of lemons. As he pulls out his notebook and a pen, I watch his hands. Are hockey players supposed to have hands like that? They don’t look rough at all, but smooth and unblemished. Prominent veins snake their way over his wrist and up his forearm. He’s like an anesthesiologist’s wet dream.

“Would you like to start now or perhaps finish dinner, first?” Henri’s smooth accent distracts me from wondering how soft his hands are. I think I need a solid slap in the face to knock some sense back into me. I can’t believe I was just sitting here sexualizing his veins.

“Eat first. How did your date go?”

I’m not asking because I care, I’m asking because it’s polite,I tell myself, even as I recognize that I care rather more than I should. I put a bite of spaghetti in my mouth before I do something insane like put his fingers there instead.

“It was enjoyable, thank you for asking.”

He smiles at me, but doesn’t seem overly concerned with expanding on that. Swallowing my half-chewed mouthful, I cough a little bit and Henri hands me a bottle of water like the gentleman he is. I don’t understand this guy at all, and perhaps that’s the draw of him all of a sudden. Maybe once I solve the puzzle, I won’t want to play anymore.

We work on our project for a few hours. I brought my laptop, so I type everything out to save Henri the trouble of handwriting it. The room is filled with the quiet click of the keyboard and Henri’s melodic accent. I blame the darkness outside, and the dim light of the room for how attractive the sound is.

“We have done good work this evening,” he says, carefully cleaning up the containers my food was in and placing them in his new trash can. “We make a good team.”

Instead of responding, I roll my eyes and stand up to stretch out my back. Henri stands as well, and I see a sliver of skin on his back where his shirt has ridden up, before he pulls it back down. My fingers itch to touch it.

“Do you ever hook up with guys?” I blurt out, allowing the madness to temporarily overtake me. Henri turns and looks at me, head cocked to the side. Fucking hell, I want to bone this irritating motherfucker so bad right now.

“I have never,” he replies, which answers half of my question but not really the important part.

“Are you straight?”

He thinks about this, giving it the sort of speculation one might give a particularly difficult mathematics equation.

“I do not think so, but I am unsure,” is what he ends up going with, which is exactly the sort of ridiculous shit I would expect him to spout off.

“You’re not sure,” I repeat, abandoning my laptop on his bed and taking a step closer to him. The room is lit by only a single lamp sitting on his desk; with shadows thrown across his face, his jaw and cheekbones look sharper. I wish he had his shirt off and I could see the light play over any curves there, as well. I bet there are quite a few.

I stop when I’m standing close enough to him to count hiseyelashes. He’s taller than me, so I have to tip my head back to maintain eye contact. I’m not a very big guy, and I’m not comfortable with the thought of giving up control to someone else, which is why I’ve only pursued women thus far. It’s hard to find a guy smaller than me.

Except with Henri, I don’t feel that usual trepidation about being the weaker partner. He would, I realize, be the perfect person to experiment with. Someone I’m apparently physically attracted to, but have no possibility of falling in love with. Someone safe. I step a little closer to him, stopping once my chest brushes against his front.

“Want to find out?” I ask, and am again treated to another thoughtful silence. Evidently, he will not be one who becomes consumed by passion. I’m going to die of old age before I ever get the chance to see what he’s hiding behind all the khaki.

“I am unsure of what you are asking,” he admits. I roll my eyes, annoyed at having to spell it out. Flirting shouldnotbe this difficult.

“I want to kiss you. See if you taste like lemons.”

This sends his eyebrows slanting downward as he frowns heavily, trying to figure out what I’m talking about. I can practically see him mentally tallying all the meals he’s eaten today and coming to the conclusion that none of them contained lemons. I almost laugh—I’ve never met a more literal person in my life.

“Me? But I am not sure you like me.”

“Honestly, I’m not sure either, but you’re super hot and I think I need to do this so I can stop thinking about it and move on.”

“You wanted to kiss me when you were drunk,” he tells me. I nod. I’ll kiss anything when I’m drunk.

“I’m sober now,” I point out.

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