There
were boots beside the front door, a black T-shirt tossed over the
back of the couch, a beer bottle beneath the shaded lamp, a
wineglass beside the bottle, a pair of brown leather gloves
beside the glass. She heard her own blood pulse in her ears, felt
dizzy and a little buzzed by the wine, the rush of activity, and
now the stillness.
Following her gaze, Jean-Pierre quickly stepped into the tiny
living room. He picked up the gloves. They were women's gloves,
she could see that now. Everything was happening so fast.
His shoulders sagged. "You saw them," he said.
Her eyes quickly jumped to the bottle, to the glass, to the
gloves, back to the glass. She thought of the car that had just
gone. She looked into his eyes. "What?" she said, her voice not
sounding like her own.
He held the gloves out to her. "I wanted to wrap them and
surprise you."
She blinked. "For me?"
"Of course."
She accepted the gloves in her right hand. There were a few
small, barely noticeable scratches on them, but the stitching was
clean and new. She wanted to say something, but when she looked
into his eyes again, whatever she had thought she wanted to say
vanished, and in its place was desire, like what she had felt
when he kissed her in the stall.
"Thank you," she managed as she absently watched him take back
the gloves and carefully fold them over, then tuck them into her
jacket pocket.
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