Better Than the Photograph

Adrian's hand came to my waist.

He leaned down, paused close enough for me to feel his breath, and kissed me.

For one suspended second, I forgot to move. Then his mouth softened against mine, and I pulled him closer by the front of his coat.

He made a quiet sound. The hand at my waist tightened.

The photograph had not prepared me for any of this.

He started to draw back. I followed him without meaning to, my fingers still caught in wool, and his forehead touched mine.

“Julian.”

“Yes?”

I was proud of producing an entire word.

“You're holding my coat.”

“I know.”

“I'm not complaining.”

He kissed me again, less carefully this time. I felt the warmth of his palm through my shirt and the surprising unsteadiness of his breath when we finally separated.

I looked up at him.

“Well,” I said.

His mouth curved. “Well?”

“You're warmer.”

“Than the photograph?”

“And considerably more distracting.”

He laughed, his head dropping for a moment, and I felt absurdly victorious. I had spent a year trying to make that man laugh without appearing to try.

Apparently, kissing him was more efficient.

“Dinner?” he asked.

“Only if you're prepared for me to be unbearable about this.”

“I had factored that in.”

We bought sandwiches from a place by the river because neither of us wanted to sit beneath bright restaurant lights and pretend the world was normal. Adrian carried the bag. I carried the drinks. His sleeve brushed mine every few steps.

At a crossing, his hand touched my back to guide me away from a cyclist.

It stayed there until we reached the other side.

“Is this going to happen every time you touch me?” I asked.

“What?”

“The complete failure of my attention.”

He looked down at me. “I'd rather hoped it wasn't only happening to me.”

I missed the next step and had to recover with dignity I did not possess.

We sat on a bench overlooking the water. He handed me the sandwich I had chosen and kept his own wrapped in his lap until I started eating.

“You don't have to wait for me,” I said.

“I know.”

A gull landed near his shoe with the grim determination of an auditor.

“Don't,” I warned.

“I wasn't going to.”

“You looked sympathetic.”

“It looks hungry.”

“It looks employed. This is what it does.”

Adrian considered the bird. The bird considered his dinner.

“You're very firm with wildlife,” he said.

“One of us has to be.”

He ate his sandwich. I tried not to be delighted by the fact that he had listened to me about a gull.

When I reached for my drink, he noticed a red indentation across my finger from my bag strap.

“You carry too much.”

“I'm an assistant. Was an assistant. It may take a while for my shoulders to receive the news.”

“What have you got in there?”

“A charger. Notebook. Three pens. Emergency sewing kit.”

“Emergency sewing kit?”

“You lost a button before the shareholder lunch in March.”

He stared at me.

“You fixed it.”

“You said thank you.”

“I don't remember knowing you'd done it.”

“You were on the phone.”

He looked at his wrapped dinner, then back at me.

“I'd like to stop finding out how much I failed to notice.”

“You noticed my mouth on your photograph quite promptly.”

“That was a stronger visual cue.”

I laughed. The heaviness lifted, but the way he had looked at the mark on my hand stayed with me.

After dinner, we walked toward my neighborhood. His hand swung close to mine. Once, his knuckles brushed my fingers, and both of us looked straight ahead with ridiculous concentration.

“Adrian.”

He turned.

“You're allowed.”

I slid my fingers between his.

His hand closed around mine, warm and broad. He looked down at our joined hands with such open pleasure that I had to look away first.

We walked three blocks like that.

I told him which bakery sold disappointing cinnamon rolls and which street flooded whenever it rained. He told me he had lived in his apartment for four years and still didn't know his nearest laundromat.

“You have a washing machine,” I pointed out.

“I meant I don't know my neighborhood.”

“Then we'll have to fix that.”

He glanced at me.

“We?”

I kept walking.

“Don't make me repeat it.”

At my building, neither of us let go immediately.

The entrance light flickered. A neighbor's television drifted through an open window upstairs. Adrian stood on the pavement looking at my mouth, and I wondered whether a person could become addicted in one evening.

“May I call you when I get home?” he asked.

“You don't have to submit every request for approval.”

“I haven't done this with you before.”

That stopped the joke in my throat.

“No,” I said. “You haven't.”

He brushed his thumb over my knuckles.

“Then yes,” I added. “Call me.”

He kissed my cheek, very close to my mouth, and stepped back.

I climbed two steps. Turned around.

“That's your idea of saying good night?”

His eyes lifted.

I went back down, caught his sleeve, and kissed him properly.

This time, I felt the smile against my mouth before he put an arm around me.

When I finally went inside, I forgot which key opened the inner door.

He called twenty minutes later.

“I got home,” he said.

“Excellent. I found my apartment. A successful evening for both of us.”

“Did you have trouble?”

“Some residual neurological damage. It should clear.”

He went quiet for a moment.

“Julian?”

“Yes?”

“I had a very good evening.”

I sat on the edge of my bed, still wearing my coat.

“So did I.”

The next morning, I attended a project transition meeting with Maya. Adrian joined for the section concerning the family property, sitting across from me with his jacket buttoned and his face arranged into its usual professional lines.

I should have been ready. I had known we would occasionally be in the same room.

Then he lifted his water glass, and I remembered his mouth on mine.

“Julian?” Maya said.

I looked at her.

“The revised interview schedule for the tenants?”

“Tuesday and Wednesday. I've separated current businesses from former applicants so we're clear about what each group needs.”

My voice worked. Miracles occurred.

Adrian asked a sensible question about access. I answered it while looking firmly at his eyebrow.

The meeting ended without incident, unless one counted my need to drink an entire bottle of water.

A message appeared as I returned to my new desk.

Adrian: Was there something wrong with the report?

I stared at it.

Julian: Why?

Adrian: You looked as though you were having difficulty concentrating.

Julian: I was thinking about the repair budget.

Adrian: Of course.

Then:

Adrian: I was thinking about last night.

I put my phone facedown.

Picked it up again.

Julian: You're a terrible influence.

Adrian: I'm free for dinner tomorrow, if you'd like further evidence.