Linked

Twelve : Face to Face

Corin is not what I expected.

At all.

On occasions when I attempted to picture him (not wanting to ask outright what he looked like, in case it seemed to him looks were my priority) I didn't dare concoct a beautiful face. Sometimes, I think, it's dangerous to daydream, because then reality will be continually disappointing and that's no way to live. So my expectations hovered between acne and severely bucked teeth. It is easy to get these things corrected of course, but not everyone chooses to. Some like the character of "imperfect" features. Corin's features are imperfect in a perfect way. His colourings create a complimentary whole, tanned skin glowing with the light from his beaming smile, a violent riot of tufty dark hair, blacker even than my dye-job. The sheer depth of the hair framing his face highlights Corin's eyes, which remind me of the sky on a clear, hot day.

He immediately pulls me into a hug and I stumble over the doorframe into his embrace. Then, something strange happens. We jerk away and stare at each other quizzically. When his arms enclosed me, it felt... complete. Like the final piece of a puzzle fit snugly into place. Or a key turning in a lock.

"It's nice to put the face with the voice," He finally speaks. It's strange hearing his voice from the outside. It seems deeper, more concrete. It's made him whole.

"Yes," I agree. My voice comes out smaller than usual.

I scope out the small room beyond. It is basic, but clean. A bed, armchair, viewscreen, table-for-one. Oh my, Corin's evening meal has been delivered and it looks delicious. A bowl of what smells like chowder, chunks of fleshy seafood bobbing around in a rich, creamy broth. A pillow of soft white bread sits half-eaten on the side of the plate. There is even apple pie and slowly melting ice cream, vanilla, the scent of it sweet as perfume. He catches me staring.

"Are you hungry?" He asks. It takes all my willpower not to leap at the table and pour that soup directly down my throat - forget the spoon.

"A little," I admit with restraint. "I had breakfast. But the train journey took a while."

The door slides shut behind me, and Corin crosses to the small table beneath the window and pulls the chair out, standing behind it with his hands resting on its back. He has nice hands, I notice. Thick fingers with short, clean nails. It is kind of fun piecing an unfamiliar body together with an oh-so-familiar mind.

"Sit. Eat. It's yours."

I hesitate by the chair. He gestures to the table again, prompting me to do as I'm bid.

"We can share," I say, lowering myself into the seat. There's a knife resting with a triangular knob of butter, so I start to cut the wedge of apple pie in half. Corin retreats to the synthetic leather armchair in front of the viewscreen, dark and dormant.

"I had a big lunch," He argues weakly, crossing his tanned arms. "They give me way too many calories anyway. I swear they're trying to fatten me up. Just look at all that ice cream."

"I'll do more than just look at it," I say, slurping warm soup off the spoon. My hands feel steadier already.

"That's more like it," Corin replies with a grin. I feel so happy and comfortable, I almost forget I'm officially a runaway. I throw him the bread roll.

"Catch."

He does, moving deftly. It makes me wonder what exercise he chooses to do to fulfill his allocation. I'll have to ask. He gnaws on his bread. We spend the rest of the meal in silence. Drinking each other in. Communicating for the first time with nothing but silent smiles.

As I scrape the last sugary droplets of ice cream from the bottom of the bowl, the viewscreen flickers on for the final news report of the day. The Before Bed Broadcast, my mother used to call it, as I would sit yawning in her lap, waiting for it to finish so I could sleep. Sometimes she would read me stories instead of paying attention. My father would glower at us from his spot further down the sofa at our flagrant disregard for the rules.