Drunk

Six.

                                                           Six.

   Shy’s eyes widened at Oliver’s bold exclamation. Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson. Her gaze adverted to the smooth, polished wooden table, thankful of the curtain of golden locks that shielded her blushing face. 

   “Oh, God,” Oliver mumbled to himself, weaving his fingers through his dyed hair. “I shouldn’t of said that. I should just keep my mouth shut.”

   “No,” Shy said quickly, but quietly. Her eyes closed, demanding herself to not be nervous around Oliver. He was just another adult. 

   A very, very handsome adult with a deep accent that could melt people to their bones, a voice said in the back of Shy’s mind.

   She glanced up, her eyes locking onto Oliver’s bashful ones. “I’m just not use to compliments.”

   “Why?” Oliver wondered, confused on how someone as simply beautiful as her was foreign to compliments. “If I were your boyfriend, I would compliment you all the time,” the older man thought aloud. 

   Oliver realized what just slipped out of his mouth, his eyes widened in fright as he gauged the woman’s reaction. I felt the urge to tape his mouth shut. 

   A nervous laugh left Shy’s lips, the brief imagine of their almost-kiss of last night flashed in her mind. She could feel the tips of her ears blush and the corners of her lips pull upward. “Well, uh, thanks, O-Oliver.”

   He wrung his calloused hands together, then pushed the black framed glasses further up his nose. Shy watched him.

   “Since when do you wear glasses?” she asked, thinking of how adorable he looked with them. 

   “Uh,” Oliver stuttered out. He debated to tell her the real reason. Well, you see, he thought to himself, my ex-wife always said I had memorizing eyes and I should show them off, instead of hiding behind glasses. She also said she preferred blonds over dark haired men. I guess I shoud’ve seen that coming when I found her in our bed sleeping with another blond that wasn’t me. 

   Oliver shrugged. “Since forever. Sometimes I wear contact lenses.”

   Shy smiled, making Oliver’s heart pump harder in his chest. She held out a small, delicate hand. “Can I see them?”

   Instantly, his hand reached up to remove the glasses from his face and placed them in her hand. Through slightly blurry vision, he watched Shy slide them onto her rounded face.

   Her ski-slopped nose scrunched. “Oh, wow, you’re blind.”

   A low chuckle bubbled from Oliver’s lips, retrieving the glasses back as she handed them back. “That’s why my optometrist says, too.”

   “You’re what?”

   “My optometrist. Y’know, the bloke that checks your eyes?”

   Realization crossed her face, her pink lips forming an O. “You mean an eye doctor.”

   “Yes, an eye doctor,” Oliver mocked her American accent. His eyes rolled behind his glasses.

   She laughed. “It’s not my fault y’all have funny words for everything.”

   Oliver smile grew. Y’all. He liked the way the word sounded on her tongue.  

   As Shy raised another torn piece of pastry to her mouth, the crumbs fell onto her book. She swatted the tiny pieces of food to the side, but the book caught Oliver’s attention.