The Living Statue

30.

"You don't seem like the marrying type." The words stop me in my tracks and I sway on my feet for a second, struggling to maintain my poor balance, be it the heels that have been killing me all night or three shots of burbon I gulpped down before dinner.

I turn around to face him, slowly and carefully, as if I'm positive I'll be facing the great Basilisk itself when I do. Mr. Torres is standing a few feet away, leaned on the door jamb with his arms crossed over his chest, the image of him sharpened against the blurry lights of Paris.

"Excuse me?" I ask, not really able to fully comprehend the meaning of his words.

He's merely a sillhouette, the only source of light the lonely lantern on the balcony, the living room filled with darkness. He doesn't move as the sheer, silky fabric of the curtain keeps twisting around his body, carried by the autumn wind.

"You simply don't give off the pretty, suburban, housewife vibes is all," he says calmly, his head tilted as he appraises me from head to toe.

"I understand what you mean alright, sir. What I don't understand is this sudden urge to make such a remark," I say honestly, bending over to take off my heels.

How come I didn't think of this sooner? I literally let these shoes torture me for hours when I could've taken them off the moment I stepped into the appartment.

Mr. Torres remains quiet as I struggle to unclasp the tiny straps around my ankles. I pull at the buckle hard, but it doesn't budge. At last I sit on the floor and pull at it with all my might, my brain too clouded at the moment to think about the fact that these shouse cost a little less than my monthly salary. "Stupid, awful, hideous piece of trash," I hiss under my breath, pissed about the prospect of remaining chained in these sandals for the rest of my life.

"Are those words directed at me?" His voice carries certain smugness, and I can clearly picture that half-moon smile of his etching its way against his fine features even though I cannot see him.

I am too engrossed in this fight I'm having with the heels to answer, even less so to notice the footsteps, and the next thing I know Mr. Torres is crouching beside me, one of his hands firmly pressed around my ankle, the other tearing my shaky hand away from my leg. His fingers are cold as ever and I flinch at the touch. But the coldness is not what's bothering me at the moment - it's the fact that he's inside my personal space again, too close for my liking, the fact that his fingers keep making small circles on my skin as he dexterily unclasps the buckle with his other hand.

I let out a shaky breath as I lean against the wall behind me, too tired and tipsy to argue or come up with a way to scold him for putting his fithy hands on me before seeking approval. I just let him do his magic and let me out of those awful instruments made to torment the likes of me as I try to focus on anything, anything at all, but the way his cold fingers feel on my skin.

He slides the shoes off of my feet, one after the other, then, again one after the other, throws them across the polished floor. They fall somewhere into the darkness with a loud thud.

"You just called me a stupid, awful, hideous piece of trash. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Now what am I going to do about that?" There's amusement in his voice, but his hand is still firm on my ankle, and I can't seem to force myself to smile.

His face is blurry before me, but I cannot tell whether it's the alcohol or if his touch has made me numb. "Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Why does your face looks like you're plotting an awful plan right now, right at this moment?" I ask suspitiously, my eyes narrowing as I scrutinize his face. His expression changed from that of amusement to that of utter concentration in a matter of seconds, but then again, for all I know it can all be inside my head. I've gotten so used to studying his expressions, which are for the most part nonexistent whatsoever, that I'm sincerely convinced I sometimes imagine things - like the slight tilt of his eyebrow, or the quick twitch of his mouth.