Page 12 of Come Back to Bed
4
Bernadette
Walking up Broadway, once I’m near 85th, my stupid heart skips a beat when I see a tall man in grey step outside the corner store, holding a small paper bag. He is nodding his head and smiling, in a way that suggests he is thinking “no” and “I’m in hell.” Hot on his tail is a hot lady in a business suit who’s holding up her phone at him. She is either trying to take a picture of him or trying to get his number. Her eyes are intense, like she would knock him over the head and haul him into the back of a van if she could.
When he turns and sees me crossing the street towards him, he does a double-take and then waves at me. “Hey Babe!” he says.
I look behind myself, because surely I am not Babe.
“Bernadette!” he says, sounding annoyed. He waves me over and watches me impatiently as I slow my pace and approach him warily. “Finally,” he says. “I was just telling Carrie here that I was getting worried about you. We were supposed to meet here fifteen minutes ago.” He raises an eyebrow at me, barely perceptible, as he wraps a muscled arm around my shoulder and kisses me on the top of my head.
What. Is. Happening?
He squeezes my upper arm.
“Right! Sorry. The train was running late. I forgot to text you.”
“Okay, well, it was nice meeting you Matt. Maybe we can get that drink another time.” Carrie doesn’t even acknowledge me, she just backs slowly without taking her eyes off of Matt. Probably taking a series of mental pictures to store in her spank bank.
His arm is still around my shoulder, as he guides me down 85th, towards our building. I can feel that his muscles have relaxed. Mine have not.
What’s weird is, despite the jarring effect his stupid gorgeousness had on me yesterday, I had forgotten exactly what he looked like until seeing him again today. When I thought about him I only remembered the spazzy way I felt in the stillness of his presence, his deep voice, the way he carefully budgeted his words, and the way he swept my hair to the side before unzipping my freaking dress.
He looks back over his shoulder, decides the coast is clear, and releases me.
We say nothing as we walk another half a block beside each other.
Walking alongside him, I’m so aware of how tall he is. Now that he’s unencumbered with duffel bags and guitar cases, I can see that he moves with the strength, confidence and grace of an athlete. When he takes out his key to open the front door of our building, I can’t stop staring at his hand. He notices me staring at it.
When he holds the door open for me, I ask him if he goes for manicures.
“No,” is all he says.
“There’s no shame in it. A lot of men in this town do, nowadays.”
“I’m aware of that.”
I don’t bother checking my mail today. I just want to keep walking beside this strangely quiet tall man with the beautiful hand that was very recently touching my shoulder. I have been waiting for him to explain what just happened, and I don’t want to have to ask.
“So, what is there to do around here that’s fun and interesting?” he finally says, as we round the corner to the next flight of stairs.
“I recommend ordering in and watching Netflix with headphones.”
“Sounds about right.”
“Being boring at home is kind of my thing.”
“I’m sure you’re really good at it.”
“Hey. I’m really busy out and about all day. In my experience, people don’t like it when I try to take a nap at a bar or ask DJs to turn the music down, so I just go home.”
“You don’t have to explain, it’s fine.”
“Really? It’s fine?! You think it’s fine! This is such great news—I was hoping you’d approve and now I know that you do! Yay!”
“Wow. You’re really good at being sarcastic too.”
“Thanks, I really value your opinion about that also. Who was that Carrie lady?”Damn you for not telling me and making me ask—you’re such an asshole.
