Killing Me Softly

Chapter 8

"Let's get it."

Peter nodded sincerely, proud of the find.

She shook her head, chewing her lip indecisively.

The charity shop had no shortage of choices but her eyes were transfixed on the one thing that seemed ludicrous and unnecessary.

It was a simple, framed painting from some long forgotten, unnamed artist. The image however, said enough to make of an impression on her.

In delicate strokes of white was cottage painted against a horizon of blue and green. It was just abstract enough to imagine it as sea shore or of a flowery field.

"That settles it then." He picked up the three by four frame with ease and brought it to the counter, ignoring her protests.

Yes, it was lovely. Aspirational. Somewhat delusional. Utterly dreamy.

But... she didn't have cash to frivolously spare on something decorative, thrifty or not, it felt irresponsible.

"Peter, please don't be ridiculous." Her eyes widened as she pleaded under her breath, trying not to make a scene of it. Years of financial insecurity had sunk its claws deep into her habits. Earning her bread and butter more steadily still couldn't incite an overnight change.

"Don't be stubborn."

She was always left flummoxed when he took that tone with her. She opened her mouth to object, but he looked to her, brows pulled in mock admonishment. It threw her off balance just enough for the receipt to be handed to him.

She sighed again, as if he hadn't done enough already.

Outside, he then refused to let her help him load the truck and instead enlisted the help of some passerby men. While she waited, she wrung her hands, unsure what to do with herself. Never having had things done for her, the sudden absence of enterprise left Zara utterly restless.

Peter continued to work with his back to turned to her. Then, as if he had eyes on the back of his head, he finally said, "Think of it as a housewarming gift."

"Then I'm getting lunch." She was stubborn, and occasionally he'd let her win.

In no time they were sitting on the back of his truck, squeezed in with a sofa, dresser and the painting, munching on pizza.

The sweater Peter wore was about a size too big and his hair tousled about in the gentle breeze.

Rapidly, he narrowed his eyes, pausing mid bite.

She had been staring again.

It was hard not to, she liked to memorize every moment spent together. However, this time her eyes were fixed on the red sauce on the corner of his lips. He took such a ravenous bites, of whatever it was- a pizza, a sub a kebab. It never disgusted her though. There was an earnestness in his abandon –– that sort of hunger after hard work.

Holding a gasp, she pushed away the thought of being consumed that way.

It took Peter no less than a second to track her focus, but as soon as he did, she rapidly offered him a napkin.

Please don't think I was thinking about anything else.

Which she definitely was.

Everytime his tongue jutted out to wet them, every time it curled to a half smile- she wanted to relive the feeling of touching them, of tasting them.

Quickly, she swiped her own mouth with a thumb, "You have sauce-"

His eyes glinted with something unfamiliar as he took the napkin, not even grazing her hands.