Maisy

Chapter 4: Maisy

I nibbled on my carrot stick and lazily scrolled through instagram, unaware of my surroundings, thinking about peaches. The color peach was so satisfying, and they were delicious, they were an eight. In sign language, you petted the fuzz of your cheek with your fingertips to communicate this particular fruit, and as I looked around I realized I was absentmindedly touching my face.

I closed my eyes and listened to my mother talking to my dad, some business about tonight's show. The chair I sat in was hard, and had grown warm over the time I'd been sitting here. I laid my head on my arm and my hair slid down my face.

My eyes popped open as I glared at the doorway, through the layers of my hair, he appeared. Without looking my way, I saw a tension snap in his spine as he turned to approach my parents. I felt a certain freedom to stare from behind my fringed curtain as I drew a line down his body. He wore a suit, black per usual, and I really liked it, but today, somehow, his demeanor seemed to lag.

He spoke quietly to my parents, I heard the words, 'massive' and 'reliable' and wished you could shut your ears like you shut your eyes.

He smoothed his hand across a sheet of paper. I imagined him smoothing me that way, very patient and slow, like he was willing to wait for me to play catch up and giving me license to breathe. I watched as he sat down and opened a new file, passing a crisp page to my mother. It was crisp like his jacket, cold like his composure, white like my face.

I moved more hair in front of my eyes, eventually letting them close.

I'd googled him, once, Jon. He had a facebook page that was private, but I could see a few of his photos. I thought of them sometimes, thinking, 'is this the same person? Does this person smile?' And it doesn't so much make him seem like a different guy as it makes me realize we all play this little act. I was playing it now, as was he, as were my parents. It was like, 'come and go and be present but never too present' and I wanted to hollar or else scream or else pound my fists against his chest.

I thought of one picture in particular. He was smiling at something, about something, something outside the frame. And his brown eyes held such delight, I often wondered what caused such a smile, because it was so true, I wished I could help create such a look on his face, but as I opened my eyes to stare again, he never turned my way.

Instead he took a sheet from his collection and crumbled it up in his hands as I dragged in the rugged air, he looked at me, just then, then looked straight away, and I felt more useless than his last sheet of paper. I smelled blood.

I sat up then, felt a rushing down my head. It wasn't completely unpleasant, more so strange or bizarre.

"Ahh." I moaned as I pulled my hand away from my face, fingers stained red with my blood.

Everyone seemed to jump up, but as Jon saw my blood, bright and fragrant, this tense energy seemed to burst into the room.

"Maisy! You okay, sweetie?" My mom reached me first as I looked over her shoulder at Jon.

"Yeah, just a nose bleed."

"I'll find you some tissues!" As my dad's hand touched my shoulder.

I watched as they hurried out the door, discussing who would go where to find what to help me as I pressed the end of my sleeve to my nose.

When the door shut behind them, the air began to buzz like bees in an orchard, or maybe it was just my skin reverberating atop my muscles, or maybe this rush of blood loss was to blame.

I felt like if I turned to face him it would be admitting something, something I wanted to keep hidden, so I kept my gaze on the door. And feeling now that we were finally alone, I actually wished one of my parents had stayed.

I held my breath, and when I couldn't take it anymore, I turned to face him. I looked in his eyes and, as I'd thought, it seemed to confirm something to him, but not something bad, because he smiled and approached me. Like looking at him gave him the permission to acknowledge me.

"Here..." He said as he pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket.

I chuckled, "a handkerchief, how old are you?"

"I'm 27."

"Hey, 9x3 is one of my favorite multiplication facts!" I thought it, so I said it, something I found myself doing frequently, only to then think, why? As I dropped my eyes he chuckled, which was such a delightful sound, I looked back up.

"I'm sorry, my mind works in a weird way."

He motioned around him in a little twist and said, "I noticed."

I pressed the cloth to my nose, keenly aware of his eyes on me.

"I'm a mess, aren't I?" I asked then thought, now he is going to have to articulate an assessment on me.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked at my eyes, in them and seemingly into my soul. A gaze so honest yet purely uncertain, it felt like he had never quite looked at me before. Like he'd seen me, but always from a distance, and now I was right here. He could lift his hand and touch me if he wanted, and I'd let him. I'd let him pet my hair with his wide hand. I'd let him stroke my check with his fingertips, I'd let him do whatever he wanted as long as his hands were on me- but the door burst open and we both jumped at the sound, like we'd been caught in some illicit act.

My mom came rushing over with tissues and a glass of ice water, Jon retreating to the corner of the room.

I switched her for the tissues and she thanked Jon for "always being a gentleman" and I asked her if she thought she could get the blood out.

"I'm sorry if it stains," I addressed this straight to Jon, I had never before spoken to him about anything personal in front of anyone, and I knew Jon felt it, too, because he looked between my mom and I a few times before clarifying that it really didn't matter.

"We could replace it?" I offered and he gave me, for the quickest of seconds, the most intense look. It was like he thought, I'd give so much more than my handkerchief for you, are you kidding? And I wondered what my face was revealing, or had revealed, today or any other day, and I had to look at the floor.

Then, rushing over me, down my spine, came the realization on just how self conscious he made me. A realization so odd I couldn't stop looking at him, I suddenly wanted to ask him what the hell he had done to me. I couldn't look away, even when he turned and with his eyes told me, quit it or they'll know.

It continued, rolling down my body like the blood from my nose. Before, last week, maybe even yesterday, I just had wanted Jon to fuck me. My wanting him had nothing to actually do with 'Jon', it was purely sexual... and right now, sitting here in this room, where he stood with me, I realized what I wanted, what I needed, and that was for him to simply like me.