Amy Inspired - Bethany Pierce [19]
We sat side by side on conjoined plastic chairs that lined the front window. To make conversation I asked about bedbugs. Companionably, he lifted his shirt to show me the damage. Red bumps rose in circles across his stomach and chest; some welts were large as quarters, others tiny as fleabites.
“They say you know it’s bedbugs if they bite in a circle.” He pointed to one particularly irritating ring. “Breakfast, lunch, dinner,” he explained, pointing to spot one, two, and three. Beneath the raw rings of irritated skin, his stomach was flat and strong. A single black line of hair trickled down his chest and pooled around his belly button.
“Do they ooze?” I asked.
“No.” He lowered his shirt. “Just itch to drive you crazy.”
He caught me examining his tattoo. “You disapprove?”
I snapped my eyes away from his arm. “Why would you say that?”
“Zoë told me you come from a really religious background.”
I found this an unfair indictment, considering Zoë had once said the same of him. I said, “Zoë says fish-oil tablets are a necessary element to a well-balanced diet.”
He laughed.
“I like your tattoo,” I went on. “I assume it means something?” The tone of the second comment canceled the approval I’d hoped the first would convey. I hated tattoos, but I flattered myself this dislike was an aesthetic preference rather than a religious conviction.
“It means something.”
He stood up to check on one of the dryers. I took this as my cue to leave the subject alone.
The moment Zoë saw us pull into the driveway, she bolted from the front door to throw her arms around Eli. She leapt into his arms and wrapped her feet around his waist. Eli set her back down on the ground as effortlessly as he might a child.
She’d made a homemade dinner to celebrate his arrival. We ate whole wheat pasta tossed with organic dried tomatoes, and fresh, sparsely shaved Parmesan; whole grain toasted baguette; and bowls of arugula lightly spritzed with lemon and vinegar and olive oil. Zoë fussed over Eli the entire meal. How was his drive? How were his bites? Did he have to catch the bugs himself? Were they as disgusting as the pictures on the Internet? How was Jillian?
Jillian was fine, wonderful: she was in Germany studying painting until May. Her schedule was unconventional. They spoke when they could.
“Don’t worry.” Zoë slapped his knee. “Amy and I’ll keep you company.”
I had been entirely invisible up to this point. Eli made a rather obvious attempt to divert the conversation my way.
“Zoë says you’re a writer.” He leaned back so Zoë could clear his plate and glass away. “You’re writing a book?”
“I’m lucky to write five pages.”
“I’d love to read some of it.”
“Amy doesn’t like talking about her work,” Zoë explained from the kitchen.
“Why not?”
“It’s a private world, up there in my head,” I said. “Talking about it with other people is like having a stranger come into your house and help themselves to your food, start rooting through your underwear drawer.” I realized too late that this was a poor analogy considering the circumstances of our initial meeting.
Eli was not offended. “I promise not to go through your underwear drawer.” He lifted his coffee to his lips. “Figuratively or literally.”
This was the second time underwear had figured into our day’s conversation.
Zoë set a cup of fat-free tofu pudding in front of each of us. Eli stuck his spoon in the center of the colorless, gelatinous mound. It stood upright on its own.
“You’re banned from my panty drawer,” I said to him, “but you can certainly eat all the food you want.”
Later I wondered why I’d said “panty” instead of underwear, panty being such a frilly, flirtatious kind of word.
Arguably, Eli was attractive, with a face that