Alligator - Lisa Moore [4]
He had said it might rain. There was absolutely no chance of rain but he’s said it before he knew what he was saying and she had considered it. Her lips were fluorescent pink from the Popsicle and he could not believe he had spoken about the weather. It was hot and the sky was without a cloud and her lips looked very cold and luminous pink. He was transfixed is the word for what he felt, but there was no chance of rain. It might never rain again. Transfixed on her mouth and her bra strap and how alive and smart her eyes looked in the shade of her cupped hand.
Frank had seen her around and didn’t know her name but made a vow he would find it out. It was the sort of information he felt he should have known without ever having to be told. It was knowledge he should have attained almost magically and he was thinking this when he discovered her name. He saw it on her necklace, a necklace of wooden beads on a leather string, one letter on each bead, spelling Colleen.
The grass is starting to die, he’d said. And without thinking he had bent forward and turned over one of the beads, the second “e,” and a moment later he could not get over his audacity.
Thanks, she said. She had dipped her chin in so she could watch him turn over the letter, and she’d sighed and he felt her breath on the back of his hand. Then he stood up and brushed the back pockets of her jeans and went inside the house.
I’m just visiting my Aunt, she said. She waved good-bye with a little wave and then just stood there for a moment with her hand on her necklace. He had touched her almost by accident and then became aware of what he’d done and he saw she was aware of it too, and they were both pleasantly flustered. Everything about turning over that letter had been gentle and unpremeditated and ridiculous. It was a ridiculous thing to do and she had allowed it.
See you later, she said. And then she had closed the door. He could hear her walking to the back of the house.
He was getting ready for work and thinking about the girl and it made him self-conscious. He found himself making up a conversation with her, something else he might have said rather than talking about the weather. They could have said something about the bridal party over in Bannerman Park getting their pictures taken under the trees, or that there had been a funeral that morning at the Gower Street United Church blocking the traffic, and all the dark suits in the heat. The organ music coming out onto the sidewalk.
The pigeons had cooed throatily, sounding intimate and provocative and flapping all around them when the door slammed down the street and the knees had been out of her jeans. A few strands of white thread, still intact, pressing against her bare knees, and she had a canvas bag covered with buttons about peace, and a pewter pin of a whale. He might have asked her about the pins. She’d sucked on the top of the Popsicle and drew the pink colour out of the tip so it went whitish like snow, and he had been adamant about the weather changing.
He carries on a conversation with her while he gets ready for work, only half-aware he’s doing it. Part of him thinks there’s a chance he’ll run into her downtown. Then he sees himself as though from the outside, alone in his apartment, thinking about a girl he doesn’t know at all, that he’s barely met. He feels his thumb brush against the dip in her throat just as it did when he turned over the bead on her necklace and he burns a hot red, so hot the tips of his ears tingle. He cannot believe he touched her necklace; his fingers had brushed against her neck. Because her hair was down and it was long and thick and curly and dark, it had trapped the heat of the sun and her neck had felt moist and warm. It had happened without any thought. He’s glad he’s alone so nobody can see him blush. At the same time he knows, unequivocally, that he has been alone