The Things He Notices

On Saturday, Adrian arrived at my door holding a paper bag that smelled of butter.

“I was told these were worth the queue,” he said.

I looked inside.

“From Bell's?”

“Yes.”

“You went to Bell's on a Saturday morning?”

“There were quite a few people.”

“Did you try to acquire the bakery to move things along?”

“I considered it around the twenty-minute mark.”

I took the bag, smiling before I could stop myself.

Inside were two almond croissants and a small cinnamon roll.

“I thought you said the ones near you were disappointing,” he explained. “I wanted you to have a better one.”

I had mentioned that once. While walking. Between a complaint about drainage and a story about my upstairs neighbor's dog.

He stood in my doorway waiting for a verdict as though the future of his company depended on pastry.

I kissed him.

His hand came to my elbow. When I drew away, he looked considerably less prepared than he had when I opened the door.

“Good choice?” he asked.

“Yes.”

We ate in my small kitchen. Adrian's knees almost touched mine beneath the table. He noticed the mug I gave him had a crack near the handle.

“Dad's,” I said before he could ask. “Not structurally compromised. I've had it assessed by my own optimism.”

He turned it carefully.

“It suits coffee.”

That was all. No offer to replace it. No concerned assessment of my kitchen.

I liked him a little more for it.

Our plan was to visit a secondhand bookshop and then walk wherever the weather allowed. I had expected him to ask how long we needed in the shop.

Instead, I lost him in the architecture section.

When I found him, he was sitting on a low stool, studying a book so large it looked like furniture.

“Comfortable?”

“No.”

“Going to move?”

“Not yet.”

I sat on the floor beside him. His knee touched my shoulder. He turned the book so I could see a photograph of a converted mill.

“My mother took me here when I was thirteen,” he said. “I complained the entire way.”

“Did you like it?”

“Very much. I refused to admit it.”

“A deeply unattractive trait. Glad you grew out of it.”

His fingers brushed my hair as he turned the page. Probably an accident. His hand returned a moment later and settled briefly against the back of my neck.

Not an accident.

I pretended to be fascinated by a drainage channel.

At the register, I found a battered book of house repairs like one my father had owned. Adrian reached toward it, then stopped when I took out my wallet.

“You can buy me lunch,” I told him.

“I hadn't said anything.”

“Your eyebrows were offering.”

He looked offended enough to make the bookseller laugh.

At lunch, he chose a chair by the window and discovered too late that the sun shone directly into his eyes. I watched him try to remain composed for thirty seconds before swapping places.

“You could have asked.”

“I was hoping a cloud would help.”

“Delegating to weather. Bold.”

He put his sunglasses away.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“That you're very easy to like when you stop trying to be impressive.”

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then his hand found mine beneath the table.

By midafternoon, rain had driven us toward his apartment. It was closer than mine, and he offered coffee with the air of a man making a perfectly neutral suggestion.

The apartment was beautiful, with tall windows and shelves that looked genuinely used. A blue armchair stood beside the sofa, its fabric faded on one arm.

“Your mother's?” I asked.

He nodded.

“She used to put her feet over that side. My father hated it.”

“Did she stop?”

“She bought him a different chair.”

I laughed. Adrian smiled, but his eyes stayed on the faded fabric.

“After she died, I kept most of what she left,” he said. “The warehouse. The chair. Things I didn't know how to make decisions about.”

I set my wet coat over the rack he offered.

“Mom still has Dad's boots in the garage.”

“Does she wear them?”

“No. But his feet were always in them. Throwing them out feels different from throwing out shoes.”

He looked at me.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Exactly.”

We sat on the sofa. I told him about the afternoon Dad died, about being eighteen and furious that the hospital vending machine had taken my money while everything else was falling apart.

“I kicked it,” I admitted.

“Did you get the money back?”

“No. A nurse gave me a chocolate bar. I cried because she was nice.”

Adrian looked down at our hands.

“I don't remember what anyone said after my mother's funeral,” he told me. “I remember the kitchen smelled of flowers and I couldn't stand it.”

His thumb had gone still against mine.

I moved closer, resting my shoulder against his. After a while, he leaned his head toward mine.

We sat that way until the rain eased.

When he got up to make coffee, he handed me a dry shirt because one sleeve of mine was still wet. I changed in the bathroom. The borrowed shirt reached halfway down my thighs, and I rolled the sleeves twice.

Adrian looked up from the counter when I came back.

Then he looked at the coffee machine.

Then at me again.

“You've forgotten something,” I said.

“What?”

“The cup.”

Coffee was pouring onto the drip tray.

He stopped the machine, shut his eyes briefly, and reached for a cloth.

I started laughing.

“I'm glad you're enjoying yourself,” he said.

“I'd offer to help, but apparently I'm a workplace hazard.”

“You're standing in my kitchen wearing my shirt.”

“Your powers of observation are returning.”

He put down the cloth and came toward me.

I was sitting on the edge of a tall kitchen stool. He stopped between my knees, hands resting on the counter on either side, close without touching.

“Would you like me to leave?” I asked.

“No.”

The answer came so quickly that my smile changed.

“Good,” I said.

I put my hand against his cheek. His eyes closed for a second before he kissed me.

This kiss had nowhere to hurry. I could feel him beginning to relax, the pressure of his mouth changing as my hands moved into his hair. When he stepped closer, I wrapped an arm around his shoulders and heard his breath catch.

Afterward, I rested my forehead against his.

“You can stop waiting for me to decide I made a mistake,” I said.

His gaze lifted.

“I was trying to work out whether you wanted more coffee.”

“Liar.”

“Yes,” he admitted.

I stayed for dinner. We burned toast, rescued pasta, and argued about whether his immaculate salt cellar served any practical purpose.

At ten, he called me a car only after I said I needed to go. He waited downstairs with me, his coat around my shoulders.

“Will you come next Saturday?” he asked.

“Does the coffee machine need supervision?”

“It might.”

“Then hire a technician.”

His hand slid into mine.

“I want you here, Julian.”

I looked at him beneath the entrance light.

“Saturday,” I said. “But I get to operate the toaster.”