Page 7 of Poetry By Dead Men
The boy clears his throat as he stands and tosses the napkins into the trash, his eyebrows lowering as he looks at the pink patch of skin on my hand. "Are you okay?" he asks, and the movement of his full lips is so mesmerizing, I don’t answer right away.
He raises his eyebrows at my silence, and I clear my throat, nodding as I stutter out a "Thank you."
Blue-eyes seems to notice my discomfort. Either that, or my impossibly red face gives me away, and mercifully, he breaks eye contact, nodding before returning to his seat and picking his notebook back up.
I feel his eyes on my back as I head to the counter to get a refill of my now half-full drink, but Molly's already waiting for me with a mug in hand.
"Here you go," she says with a wide grin, as if she anticipated me losing my cool completely and embarrassing myself with a spill. With another exaggerated wink, she hands me a fresh latte, the foam poured in the shape of what I think is supposed to be a baseball cap this time.
I openly glare at her, but it only makes her smile bigger, so I turn away, looking at the wrought iron clock by the door even though every fiber of my being is tugging me back toward the boy with the blue eyes and a dimple that makes my whole body feel fuzzy.
Seven minutes until I’m due home.
"This seat's open," a deep voice floats from next to the fireplace, brushing against my skin and sending a shiver down the length of my spine.
Hisvoice.
The words are quiet, but smooth and confident, layered with something smoky that makes my toes tingle. "Oh—Uhh. Sorry," he continues, reaching over to remove his bag from the chair next to his. "I thought I'd moved this."
He smiles in apology, and no matter how much my nerves are begging me to leave my coffee and run home to do what’s expected of me and avoid my probable punishment for being late, Ican’t. My feet pull me toward the boy with the voice like honey without permission, without hesitation. It’s terrifying and thrilling, and goosebumps erupt along my skin as every facet of the moment comes into focus.
I’m suddenly all too aware of my body.Have my steps always been this heavy and awkward? And why are my arms so stiff?
I sit, pulling out my phone before my mother can call again, and turn it off. His smile spreads to his eyes, lighting up his entire face. The dimple in his right cheek deepens, and I forget all about theinterrogation waiting for me at home. His smile is broad and white and a little crooked in a way that makes me strangely nauseous—like I'm plummeting through open air.
"Bobby." He offers his hand and I take it, my own disappearing in his warm grasp as a zing shoots up my arm. The calluses along the tips of his fingers are rough on my skin, and I imagine the gentle scrape of them trailing down my cheek.
"Do you play guitar?" I ask. I don't know where the words come from. They slip from between my lips without permission. But for some inexplicable reason, Ineedto know like I need my next breath.
"You're observant..." He raises his thick, dark eyebrows as he draws out the handshake, his voice lilting up in a question.
I stare at him for a second too long, my voice hiding somewhere in my uncooperative throat. "Beth. I'm Beth Winters. Sorry." I pull my hand away and twist my fingers together, thoroughly unsettled by how off kilter I feel.
"Beth Winters," he parrots back. My name sounds like it was made for his mouth, and it makes my heart pound so hard I almost throw up. "I do, yeah. Guitar, piano. Music's my thing."
"Is that what you're working on?" I try to look at the words in his notebook—scratchy, heavy-handed lines written in black ink, but he tips the pages out of my line of sight.
"Yeah. Um…songwriting, actually. It's also kind of my thing," he says, fidgeting in his seat.
I think my jaw drops, but I can't be sure. He's writing asong? Not ten-year plans or portfolios or embellished essays to try to get into Harvard or Yale? It’s refreshing, like a summer storm, but instead of it cooling me off, my body only seems to get hotter.
"So, Beth," Bobby says my name again, this time as if it's the most important word in the lyrics of a song he's singing. He scoots forward like I’m a magnet, pulling him closer. "What's your thing?" He gestures to the book in my hands. "Poetry?" he asks, leaning closer to read the spine. "Written by dead men?"
I smile into my cup at his joke as I take a sip, considering my answer. He’s not wrong. I do tend to live within the pages of my books and the lines of poems. I like stories with a predetermined ending. But for the first time, the idea of a blank page with endless possibilities excites me more than knowing what’s coming next.
Bobby sits back in his chair as he waits for my answer, his smile dimpling his cheek again in a way that makes my toes curl.
“Poetry, dead or alive. Men or women,” I say, writing out the first line of a story in the blank, imaginary book in my mind. One that begins with a blue-eyed boy with a kind smile and callused fingers.
When I look up, Bobby's on the edge of his seat, so close our knees are almost touching.Almost. So close that even through the small gap, I can somehow still feel him.
“What kind of poems do you like?” he asks, his lips tipping up at the side into a crooked smile that makes me dizzy.
I hand him my book, and when our fingers graze, tiny shocks erupt everywhere our skin meets. We both pause again, and as much as I want to hide behind my hair, I can’t look away.
“Pretty ones,” I say, finally pulling back. Bobby flips through the book, scanning random pages before he meets my eyes, and I blush at the way he seems to be searching inside me for something.
“Like you,” he says. His eyes move from my eyes to my lips, and my cheeks grow so hot I wonder if they’ll ever return to their pale, freckled state.
